Maybe
by CrunchyScones
Summary: Depressed by America and England's budding romance France is shocked when he suddenly finds himself caught up in a whirlwind of a love triangle that develops into abuse, heartbreak and complications more complex than he'd ever conceived.
1. Chapter 1

_They were in a smooth expanse of lush green hills, water lapped down at the edge of a golden beach and squawking seagulls circled overhead. Only a faint breeze was present in the air and the gentle warmth of a summer just beginning.  
>"Mon chérie?" Francis Bonnefoy asked, the personification of France, just into his early adolescent years by appearance. His hair was cut longer than the other countries and his bright blue eyes sparkled with promise. Even at that age he knew he was irresistable.<em>

_Arthur Kirkland, the personification of England, at that time just a mere infant appearance wise, scowled up at the Frenchman, his scruffy blonde hair and already thick black eyebrows giving him an aura of grumpiness.  
>"What now, frog?" he asked, tugging at his green cape for to be protected if the French boy decided to make any more passes at him.<em>

_France chuckled softly before pressing his fingers to his lips and then to the small boy's forehead. "Mon petit lapin..do you think.." Arthur twitched at the contact and raised his eyebrows in annoyance. "What?"  
>"Do you think you'll ever adore moi?" England blinked for a seconds before screwing his face up in distaste. Francis exhaled in defeat even before a single word had left the English boy's lips. He knew it was a long shot. Oh well..it wasn't like he – the great Francis Bonnefoy- couldn't have another lov-<em>

_"Maybe" England spat out, his lips sucked in as he thought of how to explain. "Depends how annoying you get" the little boy tugged once more at his cloak before looking out at the oceans that stretched out before them. His eyes held a longing to be sailing across them, to be free._

_"Frog?"  
>"Oui, mon petit?"<br>"Do you think you'll ever love me?"  
>Francis fell silent before he too lifted his eyes to gaze out at the waves rising and crashing into white foam in the cove.<br>"Maybe mon chérie..maybe"_

OoOo

It was morning. Or so Francis supposed. Light shone through his curtains and he could hear birds chirping in time with the beep of his alarm clock. Oui, it must be morning. Stretching his arms out across his head he yawned largely, feeling the stubble on his chin brush against his neck as he did so. "Time for a trim, I think, non?" France mumbled to himself, feeling the skin with his finger tips. He'd been rather glad that he'd awoken from his slumber before that particular dream went it's full course. That was a conversation that had taken place just before the Englishman's pure hatred for him had begun.

"l'Angleterre was so cute back then.." Francis reminded himself, swinging his legs round out of the crisp white covers so they landed on the wooden floorboards. It was already 11:34AM according to the clock on his dresser. Merde..that meant he was late for the UN meeting. Shrugging ever so slightly to himself he continued heaving himself up before heading towards the shower room. The other countries could start later, it would be good for them. They were all so up tight with their schedules and "We must discuss this now or else" policies. Why couldn't they all relax? He did.

"Mon dieu.." prodding his face as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror Francis lifted a strand of his hair before letting it fall down next to his cheek where it would've normally curled in slightly to frame it. Limp. His hair was limp. That definitely wouldn't do. Grabbing several brushes, combs and volumnising mouses he took to work pruning himself. A comb to get out the knots, a brush to smooth over the outer layers and mouse to make it shiny and soft to the touch. Once he was content with his light blonde locks the Frenchman picked up a dark blue ribbon and casually tied his hair up in a loose ponytail to the side. Parfait.

His morning routine usually took around two hours, especially after the weekend. Francis Bonnefoy's weekends were usually spent in the company of lovers, not giving him much time to sprooce himself up to his normal level of perfection. It turned out his small beard didn't need as much grooming as he'd first thought so his routine fell short half an hour. Dressing in front of the grand mirror in his bedroom, one of the ones that you could see yourself from every angle, the Frenchman dressed in light grey pinstripe dress trousers and a rose petal pink shaded button down shirt. He left the top three buttons undone to show off his chest. Fighting with the inner decision of whether to wear a neck scarf or not he suddenly heard his phone ringing, the droning sound of "God save the Queen", a personalized ring tone, just for..

"L'Angleterre?" he asked incredulously into the speaker, balancing the mobile device between his ear and shoulder so he could continue dressing.  
>"Francis where the bloody hell are you, you dolt? You're three hours late!" Arthur spat on the other line, his fury evident. France wondered in mild amusement who was going to be the first one to have to deal with the angry Briton.<br>"So? I 'av been six hours late before and nobody complained, non? What is th-"  
>"You were meant to pick me up from the Euro tunnel you insufferable oaf!"<p>

Ah..now that made things complicated. Vague snippets of conversation now drifted back into the Frenchman's mind, the meeting around a month back now held in England's capital, the two had been having tea together in the lunch break.  
><em>"So you'll pick me up from the Eurotunnel and then show me where the meeting is, correct?"<br>"D'accord, d'accord" Francis waved a hand boredly, trying to catch the eye of the waitress a couple of tables over.  
>"You won't forget will you?" Arthur asked, taking another sip out of his china tea cup before placing it back down on the saucer with a slight 'tinkle' noise.<br>"Non, non, of course not. C'est bon.." Francis winked at the waitress and she giggled, a blush spreading across her adorably rounded cheeks.  
>Arthur sighed.<em>

"Lucy.." Francis breathed, remembering the night he'd spent with the girl and how he'd completely overlooked the 'date' he'd made with Arthur.  
>"You're SO incompetent" England spat, breathing huffily into the phone out of anger. "Look-" he continued "Just tell me the address and I can drive there on my own. If I know you well enough you're probably still getting dressed"<br>Francis childishly tried to stuff the neck scarf in his back pocket, even though nobody was there to see him and prove the Briton right.  
>"'Ang on, mon petit. I can still drive you. Zere is no reason why not, non?"<br>"We're going to be five bloody hours late" Arthur said, obviously through his teeth.  
>"Oui – a record pour moi. Et don't worry, it shall be us arriving 'fashionably late'"<br>A noise that was halfway between amusement and innermost hatred came through the phone before England exhaled loudly and said resignedly "Fine. I'll see you in an hour. My car is the uni-"  
>"Union Jack top Mini VW. I know, mon petit" Francis smirked at the Brit's sudden silence before speaking into the empty air<br>"Au revoir mon chérie, try not to miss me too much until I arrive!"

Hanging up the phone and placing it back in his trouser pocket Francis tapped his chin. Hmm..actually..the neck scarf looked quite good just jauntily sticking out his back pocket like that. "It shall direct the eye to my parfait behind, non?" he chuckled, winking at himself in the mirror before doing a full turn on the spot. Grabbing his black jacket off the door handle and walking off towards the kitchen he wondered whether he should pack a couple of croissants for the enraged Englishman.

In bitterness he concluded that his joke earlier had backfired in his face. HE was going to be the one to have to deal with the angry 'l'Angleterre first. After eating quickly and brushing his teeth the Frenchman locked up his house and proceeded to walk to his car. It was a small navy blue Peugeot with cream leather seats inside. Not very stylish on the outside but it served it's purpose on the inside. His decision for getting cream leather seats was due to the interesting hobbies he liked to carry out in the backseats of his vehicle on various occasions.. If you get my drift. It would be bad to have stains.

OoOo

When France finally arrived at the Eurotunnel terminal it was teeming with people of all all ages, nationalities and genders. _So many likely candidates for l'amour.._ shaking the thought out of his head he squinted his eyes to look through his windshield for the Englishman. Unfortunately for the Briton his most recognizable feature were his eyebrows, and that's what the Frenchman caught sight of first.

Swerving into a parking space he pressed the button on the manual pad in his car and the windows all rolled down. "Mon petitttt~" he called, sticking his head out the window and waving with a smirk on his face until the Briton finally caught sight of him.  
>"You absolute bloody wanker!" Arthur thundered, wrenching the passenger door open of the Peugeot and chucking his briefcase harshly into the foot-hole before throwing himself into the seat.<br>"Nice to see you too, l'Angleterre~" Francis mused, changing the gear into reverse before turning his head to see if he could turn.

"Five fuckin' hours, France. Five FUCKIN' hours. Good god-" Arthur ran his hands through his hair, messing it up without even trying. France just shrugged, nonchalant about the whole situation for the time being. England was wearing his usual brown suit, tie and green sweater vest over his white shirt. Sometimes Francis wondered how England could cope with the humiliation of being seen in such hideous clothing yet he supposed now wouldn't exactly be the right time to bring that point up..perhaps in a couple of hours.

"Germany's been calling me on repeat for the last three hours, yelling his lungs up down the phone, swearing like no tomorrow. I mean, who the fuck does that? Swears ALL the time? Bloody hell..some people.." Arthur rambled on, making snide comments along the way and commenting on how he thought France's car stank of pee and garlic.

"Tu swear all the time mon petit" Francis pointed out after a while, his head aching from the string of curses that had been spilling out of Arthur's mouth for around fifteen minutes now.  
>"I bloody well do not!" England retorted "It's ungentlemanly to swear!"<br>France sighed, feeling his energy from the morning being zapped out of him by this child like tea drinker.  
>"Oui, oui..of course not. Mon apologies.."<br>Turning off onto a side road France could have shouted out in joy when he finally saw the sign for the meeting block. England must have noticed the Frenchman's sudden change in attitude for he turned his head in the same direction.  
>"The..arena board?" Arthur loosely translated, squinting his eyes to better see the French words.<br>"Très bien, mon cher ~" Francis smiled, reaching over to pat the Englishman on the head, who in return whacked his hand away and greeted him with a dozen more curses.

'The Arena Board' was one of the most modern meeting blocks in France. It's technology was up to date, the meeting rooms had lovely furnishings, the workers were all friendly, the food at lunch times was spectacular..yet..this was a UN meeting. None of this would matter.  
>They'd use a chalk board, not a touch screen board, they'd all sit on the stiff chairs around the largest and ugliest table, they'd ignore all the workers and most probably slag them off and the worst part of all..they'd all go to the local coffee shop for lunch. Some things would never change.<p>

Francis pulled into his usual parking space with a disappointed grimace on his face, the thought of how much his hospitality would be down trodden upsetting his usually perky mood.  
>"Are we going to go in or are we just going to sit here like lemons?" Arthur asked dryly, watching France's blank expression and obvious unwillingness to move.<br>"Hmm?" Francis looked round slowly, blinking as he gradually came back to reality.  
>"Go, now, yes?"<br>"Oh..oui...d'accord"

OoOo

The two men clambered out of their seats without passing any more comments and after France had made sure his precious car was locked and he'd checked his appearance in every reflective surface they passed they made there way to the meeting room. To say Germany was angry about their lateness would be an understatement..he was absolutely furious.

"Where have you two been?" he yelled as soon as they walked through the door, causing Arthur to start in shock and crash backwards into France, who'd been all too happy to catch him.  
>"Oh, désolée, l'Allemagne – l'Angleterre et moi were..otherwise engaged if you know what I mean"<br>Francis winked at England's mortified face but before Arthur could protest Germany yelled again  
>"I don't care what you have been doing..together!-" Ludwig cringed "Just get to your seats!"<p>

Both men nodded in mutual agreement before heading their different ways around the table to find their seats. Francis smirked as Arthur did his best to ignore him and concentrate on the now meaningless points Ludwig was writing up on the -he had guessed right- chalk board.  
>'Ow mignon..France thought, resting his face in his hand and tilting his head so he could see both England and the rest of the table in his sight.<p>

After a while Francis noticed America looking rather shifty, unusually agitated. The American's eyes were darting in between the Frenchman and Arthur rather quickly and he was tapping his pen hurriedly against his folder. Finally Alfred turned his head towards France to get a better look, he seemed startled to find the Frenchman already staring perplexed at him and his pupils dilated. "Quoi?" Francis mouthed, his eyebrows twitching up as he took in a look he knew all too well appearing on Alfred's face.  
>"You and Iggy..together?" came the badly lip synched reply.<p>

France leant back in his chair, obscuring his face from the view of the American. _Non.._was his first thought. They were friends..well..he liked to think they were. What was he to respond? If he said _Oui_ then Arthur would surely have his head on a silver platter by the end of the day. Even worse if he had to drive the Englishman home. Since when had he ever wanted to be together with England anyway? What a silly thing to be fussing over. _Non_, they weren't. They had never been, they never would b-

_"Frog?"  
>"Oui, mon petit?"<br>"Do you think you'll ever love me?"_

Grimacing as his dream resurfaced in his mind Francis leant forwards again to be faced with a twitchy looking America.  
>He shrugged. The ultimate act of indecision. Alfred's lip curled slightly but he nodded and leant back in his chair. A couple of seconds letter his feet appeared, resting on the table.<br>'Zat l'Amérique..he knew how much scuff marks annoyed the Frenchman. Crossing his arms tightly across his chest and leaning back again France decided to for once possibly listen to what they had all been called here to witness.

OoOo

_It wasn't every day that Francis saw Arthur now, especially after England had to run around to avoid having his hair cut short again. It was rather hilarious how the Briton looked with long hair, it stuck out at such strange angles and curled furiously like an untamed beast. Hair reflected personality though, non?_

_"Mon petit..what on earth have tu done?" Francis chuckled, touching one of the huge curls that sprung out from the English child's scalp.  
>"It wasn't meant to look like this.." Arthur whined, pushing Francis's hand away and trying to flatten his mop with his own small hands. "It was only meant to grow long"<em>

_France sighed in a resigned manor before lifting the small child up under the arms, dodging the kicking legs and the flying fists he managed to sit Arthur down on a small chair.  
>"Sit still, l'Angleterre" he hummed, covering the Briton with a large sheet to catch any falling snippets of hair.<br>Arthur looked around him in horror as he saw France reappear with a huge pair of scissors.  
>"W-what? Keep away from me you dolt!"<br>"I'm only giving you a trim, mon cher, tu look ridiculous"_

_England had sat in muted agony for around an hour whilst France snipped at his hair, making vague comments about how much there was to cut off and that he was a master barber.  
>"Voila! How about zis one, non?" He handed a small circular hand mirror to the Briton, keeping his hand on the handle so Arthur's small one got placed over his.<br>"...It looks too much like someone I know.." came England's strained reply, obviously displeased._

_Pouting slightly at his work being criticized France shrugged before taking back the mirror and picking up the scissors once again.  
>"D'accord, no problem. Round deux, non?"<em>

_"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? IT LOOKS EXACTLY THE SAME AS BEFORE!" Arthur screeched an hour or so later, holding the mirror in an iron grip as he stared into it in absolute horror.  
>"But this is what looks best on tu! Très mignon!" France smiled at his handiwork, stroking down the once again short spikes of the little England's hair.<em>

_"What does 'Mignon' mean?" England asked grumpily, his reflection in the mirror pouting as he looked in distaste at his old haircut.  
>"Cute, mon petit, it means cute"<br>"..Am I 'Mignon'?" Arthur asked quietly, his large green eyes averting from seeing France's face in the reflection.  
><em>_  
>Francis chuckled, bending down so to kiss the child's head softly.<br>"Hmm..maybe"  
>"WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?"<br>France's laughs erupted uncontrollably, echoing around the empty valley, drowning out the sounds of England's frustrated yelling._

"Why is France laughing, aru?"  
>"Maybe I should hit him with my pipe to see if it would stop..kolkol"<br>"Nii-chan? What's so funny, ve?"  
>"Dude, it's kinda creepy..cut it out"<br>"Perhaps he is amused by your wonderful speech, Germany?"  
>"Is he even awake? Somebody hit him."<br>"The bloody frog is probably just drunk"

Francis's eyes fluttered open at the last comment, he was sitting as he had been before, in his chair around the UN meeting table, yet all the other countries were gathered around him.  
>"Quoi?" France asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand as he yawned.<br>"You fell asleep Nii-chan" Italy filled in, stepping forwards as all the other countries realised he was fine and went about their own business.  
>"Vraiment? Oh..I see."<br>"Ve ~" Feliciano nodded, his innocent expression screaming childishness "Nii-chan?"  
>"Oui?"<br>"Why were you laughing?"

Over Italy's shoulder France caught sight of England, he was leaning against the door to the storage room, a small smile on his face, whilst America stood next to him, gesturing wildly with his hands. Francis's face fell slightly. "I.."  
>The Frenchman watched as both men disappeared into the storage cupboard, one after the other. As the door started closing France caught sight of America's face. A malicious smile he'd never seen before on the man's usually care free features disappeared into the darkness.<br>The door clicked shut.  
>"I..do not know..mon petit..I really do not know"<p>

TO BE CONTINUED..


	2. Chapter 2

Francis ate his cheese and ham panini in silence at lunchtime, as he had suspected they had gone to the local coffee place. He couldn't get the image of Arthur going into that room with Alfred out of his head..what had they done? Had they..non, he must not think such thoughts. Lifting the Styrofoam cup to his lips France blew on the hot coffee for a few seconds before tasting the caffeinated liquid.  
>It did little to soothe him.<p>

Why should he care what Arthur did? Who Arthur ended up with, what Arthur said, the way Arthur looked when he smiled. He didn't care. Mon dieu..what was going on? He tugged the ribbon out of his hair and ran his hands through his silky locks. After straightening out the knots from his hair that had occurred due to his little nap earlier he began absentmindedly twirling the ribbon around his fingers. It ended up on his little finger, tied in a bow. Francis bit his lip.

OoOo

_"Oi, frog!" Francis looked up from the book he was reading, Arthur was walking towards him, dressed in a simple white shirt and cotton trousers. He was growing up so fast now. His build was more boyish and he was quite a bit taller. France smiled._

_"Ah, mon petit ami, 'ow nice of you to visit me" England rolled his eyes, putting his hands on his hips. Francis raised his eyebrows when Arthur didn't say anything and placed his bookmark by the line he had been reading before closing the cover. England seemed more content now he had Francis's full attention._

_"You can..tie bows...right?"  
>"Oui, of course." France gestured to the bow that held his now slightly longer hair in a pony tail.<br>Arthur chewed his lip thoughtfully before nodding with his head "Teach me"  
>A small smirk spread across Francis's face before he pushed himself up from his seat and moved to stand in front of Arthur. He was still at least a foot taller than the Englishman and that pleased him.<em>

_"D'accord..mais pourquoi?" France pulled the bow from his hair gently, letting his hair fall freely around his neck. Arthur didn't say anything in response so Francis continued anyway.  
>"First of all tu take the ribbon-" he held up the thin piece of material so England could see- "and tu put it underneath what tu want to tie up" he took Arthur's hand in his and lay the ribbon underneath his little finger on his right hand.<em>

_Arthur nodded, his face contorted in concentration. Francis smiled.  
>"Zen tu bring the ends up like this" he pulled the ends up so they matched on length on either side - "and tie them in a simple cross motion" - he tied the ribbon around England's finger gently -<br>"Tu then get un side of the ribbon, like so, and make it into a loop" Francis chose the right side of the ribbon and held the end to the crossed knot so a loop appeared._

_"After that tu hold the loop, lift up ze other side of the ribbon and put the loop under it" he tilted his hands so England could see him hold the loop in between his thumb and forefinger before using his other hand to lift up the other side of ribbon and pull the loop beneath it.  
>"Nearly there mon petit~" France hummed, feeling the Englishman's concentration start to wane.<em>

_"Tu see zis side that we just put under ze other? It now 'as a opportunity to make another loop. Tu close off the big loop you made with zis other loop, like so" France held the left side of the ribbon over so it looped around the larger loop.  
>"And now..tu grab the piece of ribbon nearest tu you, zis one 'ere" he pointed to one piece of ribbon "and pull it through-" Francis tugged on the material and it slowly pulled together.<br>__  
>"That's it?" Arthur asked, stretching out his little finger to see the small bow now tied there. He watched it in awe.<br>France chuckled at the Briton's naivete yet nodded his head "Oui – it is your turn now"_

_It took England nearly the whole of that day to master the simple 'bow.' His concentration never wavered once though and eventually a small neat bow was tied around France's little finger.  
>"Très bien" Francis smiled, patting Arthur's shoulder.<br>England laughed breathlessly at his achievement before pointing to the bow around the Frenchman's pinky.  
>"Are you not going to take that off?"<br>"..Maybe later" France reasoned, chuckling to himself._

_He didn't take it off for the entirety of that whole week._

OoOo

France grumbled to himself, pulling off the bow from his finger and placing it quickly back in his hair. "Tu need to stop dwelling on zese things Francis.." he snapped at himself, picking up the rest of his panini and taking random bites out of it. When he thought about it was hard to believe that Arthur now badmouthed him constantly..they used to get on so well.

Shaking his head to dislodge any previous thoughts he'd had of Arthur Francis finished off his food before wiping his mouth clean on a serviette. He was aware of one of the waitresses looking at him interestedly yet he just didn't have the heart to woo her today. America and England still hadn't reappeared..perhaps they were still..non, stop it. Don't think about stuff like that.

As though they had read his thoughts a second later the door to the coffee shop opened and America burst through, his laughter breaking through France's silent state of mind and grinding against his nerves. His hand tightened on his coffee cup. England followed soon after, brushing himself off and trying to flatten down his hair and redo his tie. Doing up ties..that was another thing France had taught him.

"Yoooo Francis" a large hand slapped against his back and France jumped at the contact, his coffee nearly jumping out of it's container to stain the table top.  
>"Ah..Amérique..what a...surprise" Alfred slipped into the seat next to him casually and gestured for Arthur to sit opposite them. <em>By all means, join me..<em> Francis thought dryly.  
>America slung an arm around the Frenchman's shoulders before shooting him the same malicious smile as earlier "How's things?" France narrowed his eyes slightly, what was Amérique trying to achieve 'ere?<p>

"Bon..et toi?" Francis knew that Alfred didn't know a word of French, save for 'Bonjour' so it wasn't much of a surprise to him when Arthur perked up to translate for the American.  
>"Good..and you?" France let his eyes slide back to Arthur who's eyes met his for a second before withdrawing from what looked like embarrassment.<p>

"I'm amazing, dude..soooo good" Francis felt his stomach churn when America winked at the Englishman, who in return blushed a light shade of pink.  
>He listened to the general babble of conversation from the two countries sitting with him with a feeling of only being half there. Something was wrong..he was Francis Bonnefoy, wondrous lover and cook, he shouldn't be feeling like zis!<p>

"I am going to go" He finally spoke up, chucking a couple of euros onto the table before pushing Alfred's arm off him, allowing him to breathe.  
>Arthur looked up at him, startled, "Why?" he asked, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion.<br>America just looked smug.  
>Sliding out of the booth seat Francis grabbed his coat from over the back of the spare chair next to England and shrugged. "I need some air..it is good pour tu, non?"<br>"Aussi, 'who says I want to sit 'ere with tu people? Mon company is much better" interjecting his usual snide comment as he left France barely felt any emotion behind his words. They sounded..tame.

"You're still going to drive me back though, right?" England called after the Frenchman as he headed towards the door, his hands un clenching and clenching into fists.  
>Francis paused, his hand on the push handle of the glass door, in the reflection he saw Arthur's large green eyes watching him.<br>"Oui, I shall."  
>Without a word more France left the coffee house. His head was starting to hurt.<p>

OoOo

Two more hours the meeting went on, two more hours of watching lust filled looks cross the table between America and England. Two more hours of watching Arthur fall in love with someone else other than him. Perhaps he had always thought that that childish promise of future love might come true. But he realised now that's all it had been. Child's play. Empty words.

Letting his eyelids droop memories began swimming behind his closed eyelids, memories of their childhood, of their early adult years. Of when America had been found..in a sick way he guessed this was his fault.

_"Is that the kid?" England asked, peering through the bushes on his knees to see the small boy dressed in a simple white shift. Francis watched as the other man's eyes lit up in delight at the prospect of becoming a parental figure. He had once had that joy too._

_"Oui – but I doubt he'll come to tu, you're too scary mon petit"  
>"I AM NOT SCARY!"<br>"Oh look what tu did! You made 'im cry Angleterre!"  
>France crawled forwards until he was close enough to the small boy, his sandy coloured hair was stuck up in the front in a sort of cow lick. He looked strangely like Arthur..<br>Perhaps..non.. "Tu will want to come with moi, mon chéri, Angleterre can't cook for anything"  
>he said loudly, making sure Arthur was in ear shot.<br>Then lower he said "Go with 'im, d'accord? Make 'im happy" he patted the small child on the back to set him walking over to England who had been rocking back and forwards from the 'bad cooking' insult._

_Francis watched as the little boy tugged on England's sleeve until the man's large green eyes looked up. Arthur smiled in happiness. They hugged. France walked away._

OoOo

Then again, how was he to know how America would turn out? He was only doing a friend a favour at that time. Mon dieu..he must stop thinking like this. He would drive Arthur home like he had planned, making his usual snappy comments about British cuisine and so on, drop England at the euro tunnel and then drive on home without thinking of the Englishman one single time.

Oui..it would work. Or not. But he'd try.  
>"France? What the bloody hell are you moping about?" Francis slowly lifted his eyes up from tracing the grains in the wood table top and met the narrowed green slits that belonged to the Englishman.<br>"Rien, mon petit. What do I owe the pleasure of 'dis intrusion?"  
>Arthur's face seemed to go blank for a second before his eyebrows pulled together in a scowl and he gestured wildly with his arms around the board room.<br>"We're the only ones here! For fucks sake Francis, do you EVER pay attention?"

Behind them the clock on the wall struck four and England spun around on his heel to glance at It before tapping his watch and glaring at the Frenchman.  
>"We have to go. I'm not missing my train."<br>Shrugging nonchalantly France grabbed his still sealed briefcase and proceeded to head out the room. He heard Arthur's hurried footsteps behind him but ignored the sound. Something inside him had snapped all of a sudden. He was angry. Very angry. Why did he have to mope around after England? Shouldn't Arthur apologise for everything he'd put him through?

"Uh..Frog..you're going the wrong way" Arthur called, pointing towards the stairwell he had just passed  
>"Merde visage.." Francis spat under his breath childishly, ignoring Arthur and jabbing the big white 'down' button next to the elevator pad. Arthur walked to stand next to him and glanced cautiously at the Frenchman's unusually aggravated expression.<br>A small ping noise went off and a second later the lift doors opened, inside it was decorated with purple and gold swirling patterns along the hand rails and installed with dimmer lights so not to blind the occupants.

As they sailed down the dozen or more so floors they had passed this morning France kept his expression bitter, like he was chewing on a rather sour piece of lemon, whilst England stood next to him, obviously uncomfortable and watching the arrow that stated which floor they were on.  
>"Francis?"<br>"Oui?"  
>"Did you just call me 'Shit face' earlier?"<br>The doors smoothly slid open and France stepped out, brushing off his hands and reaching into the pocket of his jacket.  
>Looking back over his shoulder he thought he glimpsed a look he recognised on Arthur's face, a look that the Englishman used to wear when he had wanted to be accepted by him.<br>"B-because if you did I have a few dozen bloody words for you!"  
>Francis sighed before turning his head back and walking onwards.<p>

"W-well did you?"  
>"Shut up Angleterre!"<br>"I will bloody well not shut up! You called me a 'Merde visage!' a Shit face! I'm not dense!"  
>"I said be quiet Arthur! I 'av a headache! You're not 'elping!"<br>"Admit it!"  
>"Get out of my way, Angleterre!"<br>"No!"  
>"Oui!"<br>"Or what?"

Francis grabbed Arthur's face with his hands and roughly planted his lips on top of the Britons. He kept his eyes squeezed shut for the seconds the kiss lasted before pulling back and meeting England's astonished and horrified expression.

"Or that" France snapped, grabbing his car key from the Englishman's hand and slamming the 'exit' door loudly behind him.

OoOo

Once again in front of his full body image mirror France pouted as he felt around in his back pocket. His neck scarf was missing.  
>"I bet 'zat Amérique took it..'e always wants to mess with moi"<br>It wasn't really the neck scarf he was thinking about though..  
>Touching his fingertips to his lips Francis let his eyes flutter closed and the memory of how Arthur's lips had felt on his spread to the very fore front of his mind.<br>That wasn't the first time they had kissed..

OoOo

_It was a Saturday afternoon in May, the sun was shining bright and a light blissful wind was blowing the cherry blossoms off the trees so they swirled around like delicate ballet dancers doing twirls.  
>France watched this scene with a small satisfied smile on his lips. He loved the spring.<br>What made it all the better was that England had finally agreed to meet with him, after the thousands of roses and love letters he had sent he was amazed the Brit hadn't given in sooner but each to their own he supposed. Love took longer with different people._

_As the days were warmer Francis had taken to not wearing as many clothes as he could, he had been scolded by the other countries and his government that he couldn't just lay around in the nude so he just took to wearing some cut off dark blue trousers and laying around shirtless.  
>England stopped around a foot from where the Frenchman was stretched out across the grass and let a pained expression cross his face.<em>

_"Do you have to be shirtless? What's wrong with cotton? It's nice and cool"  
>Arthur shuffled his feet nervously as Francis propped himself up on his elbows and scrutinised him with one eye closed in relaxation.<br>"Mais it is cooler to let your skin breathe, non?"  
>England shrugged his slim shoulders and averted his eyes, rubbing his wrist with his hand as though in embarrassment.<br>"Come-" France said after a second or too, taking in the Brit's flushed cheeks and awkward stance "-Sit" he patted the soft grass next to him and smiled reassuringly._

_Watching out the corner of his eye as the Englishman sat next to him France bought his legs up close to his chest and leant his chin on his knees, letting his lengthy blonde hair tickle the skin of his legs. He lay his arms round his legs in a loose hug motion before tilting his head so he could see the Briton.  
>"'Ow come you are here with moi? I thought you were busy avec your-" France lifted his fingers up to make quotation marks in the air "-friends?"<br>Arthur whacked him on his arm, a scowl stealing his features before he stuck his tongue out in objection at the Frenchman who just laughed in return.  
>"D'accord!, d'accord!"<em>

_For a while they just sat in silence watching the blossom continue swirling and the sun beat down on the ocean in the distance which glittered like a thousand jewels.  
><em>_"Francis?"  
>"Oh, he speaks!, mon dieu!"<br>"Fine – if you're going to be like tha-"  
>"Non, non, mon petit, you know I am kidding. What is it?"<em>

_England slowly turned himself round so he was sitting facing France cross legged, his hands knitted tightly in his lap.  
>"Have you..ever..kissed anyone?"<em>

_France blinked largely for a few seconds before stretching his legs out again and setting a knowing smile on his smile.  
>"Of course, Angleterre. I am a lover non?"<br>Arthur looked down to his hands, nodding tightly. A second later he began picking at his nails._

_"Was that an..invitation?" France teased, smirking slightly. When England didn't respond his smile began to fade.  
>"Oh.."<br>Arthur shook his head slowly, a blush beginning to stain his usually pale cheeks  
>"Forget it – I shouldn't have asked"<em>

_Francis watched England's expression steadily, watching the way the nerves made Arthur's lips twitch as he kept forming words and not following them through. England's scruffy blonde hair looked a little bit more tamed than usual and a thought swam into his mind. An effort to look good for him? 'Ow mignon.._

_"D'accord" France breathed, exhaling loudly before turning his body so he was facing Arthur. As an afterthought he shifted onto his knees to be more comfortable. England didn't raise his head but just kept it facing downwards, his eyes following the movement his thumb was making as he traced circles in his palm._

_Softly Francis reached out to touch the powder like texture of England's cheek, his finger tips stretched out tentatively before he realised that Arthur wasn't making a move to bat him away. He slid his hand to cup Arthur's chin in his palm. Unusually for a man the Briton had a rather petite facial structure._

_"Are you going to look at me, mon petit?" England's eyes flicked around quickly, to the floor, the sky, the hills, vaguely to France's face and then away again. Francis sighed.  
>"Si vous plait?"<br>As though it cost him a great effort to lift his green eyes up from the floor Arthur finally obliged and met the Frenchman's bright blue eyed gaze._

_They both leant forwards. More blossom petals fell on to their heads and settled in their hair. A slight wind whipped around them causing Francis to shiver. Arthur's lips were soft, that was the Frenchman's first thought. Both youngsters sat there, unsure of what to do, slowly moving their lips against each other's with their eyes tightly closed._

_It wasn't until a couple of minutes later when the pair opened their eyes and ceased their intimate encounter that they realised their hands were then neatly twined around each other._

OoOo

Francis remembered how after a while they had kissed again, both of them getting used to the feel of the motion and realising they both rather liked it.  
>He had lied to Arthur then..he had not kissed anyone before that moment. He supposed it didn't matter now, but at the time he had wanted to seem superior and impress the Englishman. It had worked though..Arthur's first kiss had been taken along with his own.<p>

Noticing that the sun had dipped beyond the horizon and his room was bathed in a early evening dusk France allowed himself to slowly settle down on his bed. He pleated the covers in between his fingers delicately, making neat creases and folds. After a while he lifted himself up, his knees aching slightly from the movement, and strolled over to his liquor cabinet.

A bottle of red wine and a glass appeared in his hand before he even had to give it much thought.  
>He'd soon get those pesky memories out of his head..just like Angleterre sometimes said, "Better to drown the pain and not remember, right?."<p>

TO BE CONTINUED..


	3. Chapter 3

"Et then we all made up and lived 'appily ever after! Fini!"  
>A rather intoxicated Francis babbled, ending the fairy tale he had been telling himself with a slobbish round of self congratulation and applause.<br>"I know, I know. I am brilliant" France grinned, bowing to his reflection in the hand mirror he had balanced precariously against a stack of old Playboy magazines.

Reaching around twitching until he found a wine bottle the Frenchman bought the glass up close to his face, squinting his eyes so he could see the contents. He shook the bottle once, then twice.  
>"Ah, merde! It is empty!" he wailed, throwing it behind him where it crashed into a pile of green glass near his wardrobe.<br>Sobbing slightly at his lack of the beautiful red drink Francis looked back down to the small mirror glinting in the light from the fire he'd started in his waste paper bin.

"This is all your fault!" he yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at the man in the glass who widened his eyes in shock.  
>"Why did vous 'av to go and fall in love avec Angleterre?" the man in the mirror looked upset at this sudden abusive behaviour and slowly began to pout.<br>"Désolé.." Francis sighed, hugging his knees in defeat and rocking back and forwards.

This was ridiculous, he had been fine this morning, he had had no feelings of love for Arthur, or at least none he'd been aware of. Where was this feeling coming from? This burning jealousy and this feeling as though someone had stabbed him right in the heart with a knife formed out of betrayal and spitefulness. He hated, he hated it with a blazing fury, perhaps as much as he hated-

"Amérique" France spat, his eyes narrowing into slits.  
>"'e is taking mon Angleterre away on purpose! Zat..zat..fucker!"<br>Shocked at the foul language that had just spilled out of his mouth the Frenchman pantomimed zipping his lips together before grabbing a pen and paper and setting to work.

Le plan of Francis Bonnefoy, certified irresistable lover

. Drink it a lot.

Looking down at his first point and then around his room piled high with empty glass bottles Francis concluded he was off to a good start. Even if he did feel a bit queasy..

all phone calls/texts from Amérique et Angleterre  
>any physical contact with the above<br>not sleep with Angleterre  
>with prostitutes instead<p>

Suddenly France was hit by waves of nausea, his pen skittered along the paper as he failed to write his sixth point. They crashed into him like harsh waves, forcing him to double over clutching his stomach.  
>"Ah mon dieu..." he groaned, his stomach now churning and the all too familiar feeling of impending vomit beginning to settle in his throat.<p>

Once France had emptied the contents of his stomach several times over the Frenchman slowly crawled back across his floorboards to find the list he had left uncompleted. Picking up his Biro he sprawled the last few words across the bottom of the page.

drinking.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut he let the next nauseating wave push him into unconsciousness.

OoOo

The next couple of months were very hard to withstand. Luckily there were no more UN or G20 meetings yet it seemed as though the new 'couple' were everywhere Francis went.

An outing to a café in his capital for a lunch date with a gorgeous brunette girl by the name of Annie had been ruined when France happened to look up across his coffee mug and see Alfred and Arthur crossing the street to come through the door. He had hastily apologised to the girl, making up a believable work excuse, before slipping quietly out the side door and into the back alleys.

A Sunday afternoon spent quietly sitting in a park in London, the sun shining brightly down and the relaxing sound of laughter all round, had been interrupted by the American and Englishman casually strolling along, their hands entwined as they stared lovingly into each other's eyes. France had felt physically ill and as soon as he saw their heads begin to turn for a kiss he grabbed his satchel and ran. He knew it was pathetic and the great Francis Bonnefoy shouldn't be turning on his heel yet he couldn't cope if he saw that. Hiding behind a tree until he saw the couple leave France gulped in huge gasps of air. It felt as though his organs had shut down with the effort of making himself not care.

The final straw was when the Frenchman was in the last place he ever wanted anyone to find him in. Touching shaking fingers to the faded gravestone in front of him France let himself shed a few tears. "Jeanne.." the girl's perfect features swam into his mind and more tears fell down his cheeks. Placing a red rose like he did every year upon the stone Francis pushed himself back off the ground, his long legs barely holding him up as he stared down at the words etched in the granite.  
>It was all Arthur's fault, it was that bastard Englishman's fault that he didn't have his beautiful Jeanne.<p>

"I hate that I love him Jeanne, I really do" Francis whispered, letting his blonde hair fall into his face and obscure his vision. The tears wouldn't stop now and he had to put a hand out to lean on the grave so to stop himself from falling to his knees once more.

"France?" his whole body hardened. Footsteps crunched on the gravel and soon enough he felt a person's arm resting against his as they stood next to him. What was Arthur doing here? Him of all people should never set foot in this sacred land.  
>"I noticed it was that time of year again" England said softly, now gazing with an unrecognisable expression on his face at the gravestone in front of them.<br>He bent down for a second and when he stepped away a single lily was resting next to the rose that France had previously placed there.

Francis said nothing. He had no words he wanted to utter to the venomous murderer that had killed the girl he loved. Love might have been what he had been feeling for Arthur in the past months yet on this one day love was as far from his mind as it ever could be. Hatred pumped through his veins.  
>"Did vous come alone?"<br>England's face tightened and he swallowed stiffly.  
><em>Non..of course he didn't<em> France thought resignedly

A low call of the Briton's name echoed around them followed by the sound of lumbering footsteps up the stone paved path. By now the tears in Francis' eyes had dried up and the Frenchman was feeling far from sociable. Gritting his teeth France turned his head away from the approaching American and met England's large eyed gaze.

"If vous 'ad any respect for me ou Jeanne vous would not 'av bought Amérique here"  
>Arthur opened his mouth to speak<br>"Non – I do not want to hear it. Go to your little 'boyfriend' Angleterre. Try to find a shred of kindness in his heart."

Without a single word more the Frenchman turned away from Arthur's perplexed expression and began walking hastily away. America had not seen him and he intended to keep it that way. Ducking behind various grave stones and shrubs along the way France eventually managed to get to the wrought iron gate that bore the exit. His confident bravado faded as he stepped down the cobbled steps to where his car was parked.

By the time he was sitting safely in the driver's seat the waterworks had sprung a leak once more. Not bothering to wipe his eyes dry Francis leant his head back against the headrest and stared hard up at the roof of his vehicle.  
>The last time he'd had to sneak around like this he was in a much different predicament...<p>

OoOo

_"Merde!" Francis screeched, shaking his hair frantically and pulling the flimsy silky material off his golden locks. Trust him to walk into a spiders web! What he really wanted to know is why there were spider's webs in the first place – didn't Angleterre ever clean up his home?_

_Then again, this wasn't exactly an expected visit. He was sure London would've been more sanitary had the Englishman known of his arrival. Peering around a street corner and squinting his eyes against the dusk of the early evening France scanned the buildings in front of him for anything vaguely recognisable._

_"Mon dieu...it cannot be that hard." scowling down at the map of London he had previously ripped from a library book he followed the line of which he'd drawn in thick ink to direct him to his destination. According to this he should be just a street away._

_Making sure no-one was following him by a quick glance over his shoulder Francis seemed satisfied and continued walking. The temperature had plummeted steeply since his arrival and he now shivered involuntarily, his thin silk shirt and waistcoat not providing valid insulation against the bitter wind._

_A policeman passed him turning his baton over in his hands and the Frenchman stiffened ever so slightly, he had nothing to fear of course, the police force wouldn't know that he was a country or anything along those lines yet he was still wary. Keeping his head down as the officer passed Francis hoped to God that England's house wasn't too far._

_Eventually France found the flat, it was blindingly plain and had only a small unkempt garden at the front before a peeling black painted door was in view. Stunned at the prospect of Arthur actually living in this abomination Francis cautiously went to knock on the wood door. Nothing happened for around a minute or so until a light flickered on and the sound of footsteps down a flight of creaking stairs was heard._

_Several locks gratingly snapped open before Arthur opened the door a crack and stared out. His eyes narrowed as soon as he took in the Frenchman's figure and he hastily tried to slam the door shut again. Putting his hand out France grabbed onto the wood and forced it to stay still, the __motion not causing him much strain for he was a prospering nation. England on the other hand had beads of sweat appear on his forehead as he fought to keep Francis out of his home._

_"Vous will only tire yourself out, mon ami" France smiled sadly, meeting the Briton's gaze. A few more seconds of abusive eye contact passed before England finally tired and let the door swing out of his grip. Francis had to force himself to keep smiling. Arthur looked terrible; his clothes looked old and soiled, his hair was matted and uncombed, and his face...he could have easily passed for around forty. He looked so worn down and beaten._

_"What do you want, frog?" England said sceptically as he stepped back and wandered through another door into another room of his property. Inside it was reasonably cheerful, somewhere you might expect the Briton to live. A half finished crossword puzzle sat next to a cup of tea on a small table and a fire was steadily burning in the fireplace. Not until France got closer did he see that the puzzle page was dated three months prior and that when he touched his fingers to the tea cup the contents was ice cold._

_"What is going on Angleterre? Why are you living like..like..this?" he gestured around the room with a look of masked disgust before his eyes settled on the kitchen table. Around five piles of unopened envelopes sat in neat stacks on it's surface, each stamped with the red letters proclaiming them as 'URGENT.'_

_Arthur sat down on a footstool near the fire and attempted to warm his hands over the flickering flames: when that failed he moved on to blowing warm air onto them and rubbing them together to create his own heat.  
>"I am just a little behind on my payments is all. Nothing to worry about"<br>he blew on his hands once more "It's certainly not something that concerns you anyway."_

_So that was it. England was in debt. Serious debt by the looks of things. Walking carefully across the creaking floorboards Francis picked up one of the crisp envelopes and sliced it open with his thumb nail. Arthur seemed to be either unaware of his actions or was aware and just not able to find it in him to care. France nearly choked on his own breath as he looked down at the bold printed numbers on the letter. This was ridiculous! England couldn't owe that much! ...Could he?_

_"Was there something you wanted Francis? Otherwise I think you should leave" Arthur stoked at the fire as though just to find something to occupy his hands with, he didn't do a very good job though and the flames spat out at him, charcoal once again staining his already burnt trousers._

_This wouldn't do. France couldn't let this continue, he wouldn't let it. Glancing down once more to the figures on the page he decided that he couldn't help out Arthur financially despite how much he wanted to. Being here would be a start. He would look after the person, not the country. That was as much as he could do._

_Picking the rather delicate man up from the floor by his elbows Francis ignored the half hearted accusations, curses and violence aimed at him as he looped England's arm around his neck for support.  
>"Vous are filthy Angleterre, time for a bath I think, non?"<br>"A bath? I can bloody well clean myself you pervert!"  
>"Obviously not though" France muttered under his breath as he helped the Englishman up the rickety stair case and towards what he presumed was the bathroom.<em>

_It took a great deal of effort to finally get Arthur to disrobe and be willing to step into the water yet once Francis had insisted and had to swear on his life that he wouldn't peek at the Briton's nude __form England seemed a little more content and settled in the bath.  
>Rolling his sleeves up and kneeling by the side of the porcelain tub Francis let warm water rise up until he could no longer see the Briton's knees through the liquid before he managed to find some soap and a wash cloth and begin what he now saw as his 'duty'<em>

_"This is so degrading..." Arthur grumbled as he wrapped his arms around his thin legs and let the Frenchman scrub his hair clean of all it's dirt and tangles. Francis made a point of ignoring him and began humming under his breath his national anthem to keep his mind at ease._

_To be quite honest France wasn't sure what he doing, he had wanted to help the Englishman, he knew that much, but, how was this helping? In his mind he had a picture of the Arthur he knew, all clean cut, blushing, cursing and perhaps tending to his garden or working on an embroidery sampler. That was what he wanted to see again. In a way he thought that if he could make the man himself feel better about himself then the country's recession would soon start to lift._

_It was a stupid hope yet it kept Francis going. Picking up a bristled brush from the pile of wash items by his feet the Frenchman applied soap to its spiky form before scrubbing ruthlessly at Arthur's skin. Curses erupted from the Englishman yet France just sang louder, closing his eyes at points so not to see the raw pink colour that the Briton's skin was turning from being cleaned to it's core._

_Obviously Arthur wouldn't let France wash his more private areas so Francis handed over a flannel and just sat back with his eyes averted so not to give the Englishman any reason to yell at him. His eyes might have slipped back to sneak just a few glances once or twice but other than that he very much stuck to his word._

_Once France was convinced that not a single ounce of dirt was left on the Englishman's body, for which he had to conclude by way of a thorough inspection of course, he let the Briton step out of the bath tub and be wrapped in a large fluffy yellow towel. He hoped that it wasn't his imagination that conjured up the thankful gaze he thought he saw on England's face._

_"Do vous need help rubbing yourself dry, mon petit?" France smirked, now draining the bath of it's water and scrubbing down the sides so not to leave any stains. England shot the Frenchman a rage filled scowl over his shoulder before spitting out "Only in your fuckin' dreams, wine bastard" Francis laughed softly before standing back up and following Arthur out the bathroom graciously. Not to much surprise on France's part England slammed the bedroom door shut on him as he went to change into some clean clothes, so the Frenchman waited patiently out in the corridor._

_It wasn't going to be easy: being in London guiding his ally along the road to recovery. It was going to be especially hard keeping this from his government who would most likely contort it into a universal matter if they got wind of it. Biting his lip France wondered if he was doing the right thing, perhaps it would be better to let England get himself out of this recession by himself? Arthur would probably much prefer it that way._

_The bedroom door clicked open interrupting Francis' thoughts and he turned his head. England walked out looking considerably better and less like the disheveled man France had met at the door just a mere half hour ago. His face still had the appearance of being lined and his eyes looked tired yet everything else looked like it was practically normal, the grey dress trousers, the white shirt with a silk backed green waistcoat over the top, a dark green tie round his neck, hair still sticking out in tufts despite being combed, the usual self assured smirk._

_It was a start, and Francis was insanely grateful for it.  
><em>_"Now, are you going to make yourself useful and make me some dinner or what?" Arthur raised his large eyebrows and stuck his nose in the air with the the dignity of an aristocrat.  
>Another laugh escaped the Frenchman's lips and he nodded "Maybe – depends if I can find anything worth cooking pour vous in that thing you call a pantry"<br>Arthur's mouth fell open in shock "I'll have you know my pantry-  
>"Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé! Contre nous de la tyrannie" Francis burst out into song, cutting the Englishman off mid sentence.<em>

_His left eye twitching slightly the Briton put all his remaining energy into chasing France down the stairs, swearing like a sailor all the way._

OoOo

Now at home stretched out across his leather sofa Francis let himself smile at the memory he had just revisited. It hadn't been easy to sneak around to see England but he had managed it and eventually the Briton was as narcissistic as he ever had been. Though now in the current economic climate Arthur was once again in recession the Englishman seemed to have gained some tips on keeping himself in shape and he never once was seen looking as run down as France had seen him the first time round.

That bought him back to the present once more, the memory of his visit to the graveyard that had been pushed to the back of his mind for weeks now. Once no more tears had been shed from his eyes France had sat there thinking for hours, thinking about him, thinking about Arthur, thinking about Alfred, thinking himself into a hole.

In the end he had decided that he was best of without the company of the Englishman, that he would be happier in himself if he didn't trail around after a man whom Cupid's arrow had already hit. Later that same day he had called up that girl 'Annie' that he had had to abandon on their coffee date when the arrival of America and England had sent him fleeing. Sometimes a night of passionate meaningless sex is all you can do to get somebody off your mind.

Arthur was a past fixation now, just like all France's previous crushes and one night stands. England was history, past tense. That door would never be opened again. Just as Francis was about ready to open a nice bottle of Sauvageon Blanc and settle down to watch some afternoon reality television to pass the time a knock was heard at the door.

Frowning, France set down the silver remote control on the arm rest of the settee and slowly hauled himself up. Perhaps it was a delivery from Spain or Prussia? They sometimes sent him girls as a joke. Feeling his hopes rise just a tiny bit at this previous thought Francis sped up a little bit. He opened the door with a large smile on his face. The person on the other side of the door frame didn't return the pleasantry.

"Arthur?" Francis asked, confused as he watched the streams of moisture run from the Englishman's eyes. Without a word Arthur stumbled forwards and grabbed onto the Frenchman, hugging him tightly and staining France's shirt with the moisture of his tears. Unsure of what to do France remained unresponsive for as long as could. Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to comfort the Briton even If he knew it was unhealthy for him.

Tightening his arms around England's quivering form Francis rested his cheek against the soft strands of Arthur's golden hair. No words were needed and no words were wanted. All that mattered was that the Englishman was here. Shaky fingers touched to France's lips and the Frenchman, startled, glanced down to see Arthur looking up at him with moist eyes.

It seemed only natural then for the two nations to close the distance between them with a gentle touch of the lips.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	4. Chapter 4

Francis watched with disinterest as the kettle emitted steam and water boiled inside its plastic shell. Grabbing two striped coffee mugs from the cupboard above the sink the Frenchman measured out a teaspoon of coffee granules into his cup and placed a tea bag in the other for the Briton. How had it come to this? How it had it come down to him being a counsellor to Arthur about his failing love life? Not that he hadn't done it in the past, of course, but back then it was all teasing, now it was serious; there was actually a love in the Englishman's life. Things seemed so much more complicated nowadays.

Pouring steaming water into each cup and stirring both amounts of liquid with a silver spoon France paused in placing the two mugs on a sunflower yellow tray. What he didn't understand was if Arthur was in love with Alfred why did he run to him? Why had they kissed? Why was England sitting on his couch right now waiting for him? Too many questions. It made his head hurt.

OoOo

_"Mmf! Angleterre! – stop!" Francis pulled away from the Englishman with a shocked expression on his face, his eyes looked frantic. England ignored this protest and reached up to crash his lips once more to the Frenchman's, tugging at France's clothes and hair, drawing him in nearer.  
>It felt good, being this way with Arthur, the way England obviously wanted him, yet it wasn't right, it wasn't right at all. As much as France hated America he didn't want a raging boyfriend on his case.<em>

_"Stop!" he pushed Arthur away again, more force in his actions this time, before holding the man at an arms length. England's eyes were still wet with salty droplets of moisture and were rimmed red. Arthur wiped his tears away with the back of his hand before sniffing and all but yelling  
>"Why? Isn't this what you want? You wanted me to come crying back to you all along, just let me be the weak one for once, I don't care, I don't, I-" hands desperately tugged on Francis' sleeves<br>"-I-I need you, I want you, I don't want to think, please Francis"_

_France felt his resistance wearing; the look that England was giving him was slowly chipping away at his bold exterior. What did he mean? What was this? Arthur's eyes filled up with a fresh round of water and he closed his eyes as the moisture flooded down his cheeks. Only then did Francis notice-  
>"What has happened to your eye, Angleterre?" France reached out gently to touch delicate fingers to the Englishman's face yet Arthur flinched away, as though fearing the contact. A light bruising was present around the Englishman's eye socket and eye lid, a fresh marking.<em>

_"Nothing – I, um, I-I fell. You know I'm barely ever looking where I'm going" a forced sounding chuckle escaped the Briton's lips, his lips twitching up into a smile before a wince crossed his features and he let it fall.  
>"What has Alfred done to vous?" Arthur's eyes were open now and gazing in a reserved manor at the Frenchman's own blue gems.<br>"Arthur?"  
>"He didn't do anything wrong." more bruising unveiled itself to France's eyes as England turned his head to the side, deep green and purple marks were trailed along his jaw line and neck, as though he had been held in a choke hold.<em>

OoOo

That was how he had excused himself to the kitchen, offering promises of a long chat over tea when in actuality all he had wanted to do was vomit. He didn't want to understand, he realised, it was blatantly obvious what was happening between those two. How could America stoop that low?  
>"Frog? What's taking you so bloody long?" Arthur called from the sitting room.<br>What was even worse was the fact that England refused to acknowledge anything was wrong, he viewed it as 'normal', as 'something that came with a serious relationship.'

Picking up the patterned tea tray Francis grabbed the biscuit tin and a box of tissues as a precautionary measure and pushed on the kitchen door with his hip so it swung open. Arthur smiled tightly when he saw the Frenchman, his tears had dried up by now but the bruises were becoming darker by the second, at least to France's eyes anyway.

"D'accord, so, here vous go Angleterre, a nice cup of tea" he handed over the red and white striped mug, flinching when his fingers brushed against the ice cold texture of England's skin, before picking up his own green and blue striped cup and settling back into an arm chair opposite the Briton; he didn't want to be too close.

Arthur nodded his thanks before blowing on the liquid and taking a sip, his mouth puckered up for a second at the taste before he sighed and decided that he really didn't have it in him to complain about the quality of the tea bags Francis used. That made France agitated; usually England was always up for a good bashing at him, even if it was in a joking way.

Nibbling on a biscuit and watching Arthur from beneath his lashes France let the silence they were sitting in stretch out. Being unsure of what to say was a weakness that the Frenchman barely ever suffered from, he could usually think of 101 pick up lines in a split second when he set eyes on a girl, but in this particular instance he was useless.  
>How did you react when you found out that that the love of your life is being abused by their partner? Francis pursed his lips.<p>

"He's not a bad person." England finally spoke up, taking another sip of his tea before swallowing quickly so not to let the taste linger on his tongue. France said nothing and the Englishman hurried on "You know how he is Francis, he's full of this "I'm a hero" bravado and his mind is like a child's. He doesn't mean it, he doesn't know his own strength."

Why was Arthur making excuses for him? Surely he couldn't still love the man, he came running to his house in tears for heaven's sake.  
>"Amérique is a grown man, Arthur.-" France said slowly<br>"-He isn't dense, he knows what he is doing"  
>England set down his tea cup on its saucer and stared down at the tea granules sticking to the bottom of the china.<br>"In a sense I suppose... but it doesn't change anything. He's still the annoying loud mouthed git he always has been, and I...I love him"  
>Francis flinched at hearing the words and his half eaten biscuit fell from his fingers. Cursing under his breath the Frenchman apologised and knelt down to retrieve it.<p>

Arthur took this opportunity to bend down near to France, his hands found the biscuit before Francis did and England gently pressed it into the other man's palm.  
>"Don't worry about me, frog." another forced smile on the Briton's lips, Francis felt an iron fist close around his heart.<br>"W-what did vous mean when vous said vous needed me?"  
>"When? Earlier?"<br>France nodded hesitantly. England inhaled a deep lungful of air before letting it escape gradually out through his lips.  
>"Exactly what I said...I need you, even if it's not in the way you would like."<br>"Will that ever change?"

An echo of a memory, those words that often haunted the Frenchman rang out loud in his mind.  
><em>"Do you think you'll ever adore moi?"<em>  
>Like the first time he had asked when the Englishman was a mere child Arthur said nothing for a minute or so before his eyes flicked up again to meet France's questionable gaze.<br>"Maybe, Francis. Maybe.."

How he hated that word, it was such an indecisive thing to say to somebody, it left you hanging, not knowing whether your future promised you love or heart ache.  
>There had been too many 'maybes' in Francis' life. He needed a proper answer for once, a straight answer. He deserved that much didn't he?<br>Just as the Frenchman was about to confront Arthur with this point a low droning noise rang around them, that infamous Nokia theme tune they play in cinemas to tell you to turn your mobile phone off before the movie.

England leant back on his haunches and pulled the cellular device from his trouser pocket, his battered face paled.  
>"It's Alfred"<br>A second to decide and the Briton decided to risk it, his thumb pressed down on the 'end call' button and the ringing ceased. It was obvious from the Englishman's expression that he would most likely pay for that later. Francis once again felt sick to his stomach.

"Go." France said, pushing himself up from the floorboards and looking down to the Briton. His eyes glazed over slightly as he tried to stop himself from showing too much emotion.  
>"I'd like vous to leave now, Angleterre" Arthur looked to the Frenchman with a slight smile on his lips, as though he thought France would be joking and be just about to invite him to stay a while longer. When no punch line followed the Frenchman's last statement the smile faded quickly.<p>

"Oh...I see" England slowly hoisted himself up, using the sofa as a support before he stood awkwardly looking at Francis. Arthur stepped forwards, hesitated, and then placed a chaste kiss to the Frenchman's cheek.  
>"Thank-you" France kept his expression smooth and didn't say a word.<br>The closing of a door and a lock clicking into place broke Francis' calm state of mind. His hand flew to his mouth and he had to quickly manoeuvre himself into a chair before his legs gave way.  
>Shaking with involuntary tears falling silently down from his eyes France watched through the window as Arthur's Union Flag Mini drove up the street, took a left and then disappeared from view.<p>

OoOo

"Leave me alone" France groaned, his hands lodged in his knotted blonde hair as the trill of the phone started up again. He knew it was England, or if not him then America calling on the Englishman's behalf. A small part of him wondered if the American had got the news of Arthur's visit quite yet, or if the Briton had been smart and lied as to where had had gone. He decided he didn't want to think about it, even to care.

The phone calls had started around a week ago, around four weeks after England's tear filled visit. At first France had picked up, played a part in a pointless conversation, asking after the Briton's health and such like, before Francis realised that it wasn't the Arthur he knew and loved he was talking to; it was this new Arthur that America had sculpted, the man who was battered, bruised, flinching and unsure of himself. This new man had no confidence.

It wasn't long after that first conversation that France began dodging calls from the Briton, he even installed Caller ID so he could tell who was calling. Half the time the calls were coming from America's land line and that just made things ten times worse. Who knew what horrific torture the American was dishing out? A small part of France's brain spoke up then and suggested that perhaps Alfred was a sadist, a person who enjoyed seeing other people's pain and perhaps got sexual pleasure from it. That thought inevitably led to Francis chucking his lungs up over the toilet.

It began to become a routine in the weeks that followed, France would stay at home either watching TV or listening to the radio, doing trivial things, washing up, sketching, reading a book. Anything so not to remind himself of the outside world and the people that inhabited it. His government rang a couple of times to make sure he was still breathing and around a dozen or so girls rang to see why he had bailed on their dates but other than that nobody enquired as to his absence.

Memories flitted around the Frenchman's head when he sat at his window, enjoying the sunshine streaming through and warming his skin. One day in particular came to the forefront of his mind as he caught a glimpse of a family walking in swimming costumes, towels draped round their shoulders, and carrying beach necessities walking towards the coastline he lived near.

OoOo

_"Why do we have to go the bloody beach of all places? I've been there plenty of times."  
>Arthur whined incessantly as they pulled in at the car park next to the small boat rental hut perched at the top of a steep hill that led down to the sand.<br>"Parce que I say so, aussi-" France grinned broadly, unbuckling his seatbelt "Vous have not been to my beaches before, they are sandy, not full of stones are yours are. It's much nicer"  
>"Oh piss off, will you" England grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and making no move to exit the vehicle.<em>

_Francis sighed and raised an eyebrow before saying exasperatedly "I'll buy vous an ice cream?"  
>Arthur snorted "You think I'm that cheap that I'd sell out for a ?"<br>Shrugging, the Frenchman smirked "Are vous?"  
>England pursed his lips together tightly before he slowly unclipped his seatbelt.<br>"Only because I'm hungry, frog, the moral high ground is still mine"  
>"Hah! Vous never had it in the first place mon petit~"<em>

_As they climbed out the Peugeot that France owned they were suddenly buffeted by great winds rolling off the sea and heading inland. England screeched and held on to the car door handle for dear life and Francis let out a roaring laugh.  
>"Ahhaaaa! Oh, Angleterre, you do amuse me!"<br>"Oh fuck off!" Arthur spat, trying now to flatten down his windswept hair and regain his dignity despite his red stained cheeks._

_Grabbing their towels and picnic basket the two nations began walking down the steep gravel walk way to the indeed sandy beach that lay before them. Francis inhaled the sea air deeply and smiled broadly before turning round to his companion and fighting to suppress a laugh.  
>"Oi!, twat! Don't just leave me to carry all the bloody stuff!" England tried to juggle the towels and beach equipment under one arm whilst swinging the picnic basket from where he had balanced it on his palm.<em>

_Noticing the Briton starting to topple over the Frenchman leaped forwards and put his arms out __just as the towels and and sun umbrella came crashing down, Arthur somehow managed to trip over his own feet and he would've fallen flat on his face if Francis hadn't have grabbed the man round the middle at the last moment.  
>"Merde! Watch your step Angleterre!" France hurriedly tried to drag England away from the edge of the walkway where a steep drop led down to the part of the beach that was dotted with jagged looking rocks.<em>

_Arthur seemed too stunned to move for a second before his eyes widened and he tried to rush back towards the ledge, fighting against the Frenchman's grip on his waist.  
>"Angleterre?"<br>"The picnic basket fell over!" England yelled, once again being grabbed at the last second by France before he spiralled off the edge and to his doom.  
>Francis gave the other man a look of disbelief before he began to laugh<br>"Vous were ready to risk getting yourself killed for some food?"  
>England pouted slightly before he mumbled "Not just any food. I had some scones in there..."<em>

_Rolling his eyes at the Englishman's child like tendency to retrieve anything that is lost Francis kissed Arthur's neck as a thank-you for his thoughtful gesture before finally managing to get England away from the danger zone.  
>"Shall we?" France asked, gesturing with a hand down to the golden sand.<br>Arthur coughed slightly, trying to remain aloof despite his cheeks growing more crimson every second. "Sure, lets go"_

_The wind was still strong on the beach and Arthur still seemed a bit uneven as he walked so the Frenchman took the Briton's hand and squeezed it, ignoring how England's eyes seemed to bulge at the contact and how he tried to disentangle himself. After a couple of minutes however the Englishman couldn't seem to be bothered to retort any more and they walked along hand in hand in silence. It was a truly beautiful day, the sky was a bright shade of blue and dotted with puffy white clouds, the sunshine reflected off the sea water and made it seem as though it was sparkling._

_"Bugger!" Arthur shrieked, hopping around on one foot as he desperately tried to shove his other bare foot back in to his sandal. Another thing to add was that the sand was scorching hot, an aspect that the Briton had obviously not expected.  
>"I think I burnt it!" England wailed, leaning on the Frenchman and making "aaah" and "eee" noises as he prodded at the bottom of his foot.<em>

_"I doubt vous burnt it mon ami" Francis shook his head slightly but then smiled when he saw Arthur's glare.  
>"Ah, fine. I shall give vous a piggy back, seeing as I am so nice, non?"<br>"Wha-? NO!" before he could even begin to run or perhaps hop away France had grabbed the Englishman and was forcing him to climb onto his back with an almost superhuman strength._

_"This looks ridiculous, frog! Get me the fuck down from here!" England panicked, looking around helplessly as Francis began walking further along the beach.  
>"Hold on, mon petit lapin, I do not want vous to fall off" Francis hummed happily as he strolled along, his hands holding Arthur securely under his thighs near his knees.<em>

_Noticing a couple of children pointing and laughing at their situation the Briton awkwardly complied, crossing his legs over one another around the Frenchman's middle, slipping his arms round France's neck and then burying his face into his companions hair so to hide his face.  
>"I hate you sometimes, I really do" he grumbled, still listening to the youngster's laughter.<br>"Et je t'aime aussi mon petit" Francis chuckled before breaking out into a chorus of his national __anthem as he often did at awkward moments._

_After what seemed like an eternity of walking Francis began to slow, looking around at his surroundings and then letting a satisfactory smile cross his features.  
>"We're here mon petit!"<br>Silence.  
>"...Angleterre?" France tried to crane his neck to look back over his shoulder and as he did so he felt England's hands start to slip from around his neck.<br>"Eeek!" quickly improvising so the Englishman would land gently on to the sand rather than fall off roughly the Frenchman looked down with an amused expression at the sleeping Arthur.  
>"Typical, non?"<em>

_He supposed that the Briton had fallen asleep a while ago; his breathing was deep and he kept rolling around or twitching as though in the middle of a dream. Francis couldn't exactly remember when Arthur had nodded off, perhaps though because he took the Englishman's silence to be him listening intently to everything the Frenchman had to say. Rolling his eyes at his previous naïve thought Francis set up the sun umbrella over England's head so to douse him in shade._

_Shaking out a couple of towels France set to work arranging a comfortable sitting arrangement for himself. As the sun brightened in the sky he popped some sunglasses on his nose and then did the same for the sleeping England. It was rather boring just sitting there, even with the beautiful sea just in front of him, so, after a moments pondering,the Frenchman decided he could do what he wanted to with the Brit. After all, as he remembered from their childhood years, Arthur was a terribly deep sleeper._

_Applying sun screen to the Briton's pale form was the first task on his agenda, a sun burnt Arthur would be no fun at all, especially if he was complaining all the time. Removing the ugliest shirt he had ever seen from the Englishman's chest France continued to lather his companion in sun block. It was incredibly weird doing this whilst Arthur was sleeping, it was as though he had a England doll he could do whatever he wanted with. That was, of course, if you weren't on a public beach with children around._

_Somehow he managed to change England into a pair of bright red swimming trunks without the man waking up and anybody seeing, the umbrella probably helped a lot though in concealing them from view. France changed into a pair of athletic swimming shorts and lay down on the sand next to Arthur, watching him and pouting slightly.  
>"Vous are most boring when vous are sleeping, Angleterre"<em>

_A sudden thought sprang to mind and the Frenchman's eyes glinted. It was so evil but...oh so brilliant. Shuffling on his knees back over to the Englishman France began undoing the button and zip on Arthur's khaki shorts. They were truly horrific to look at so perhaps England would thank him for ridding him of such undesirable clothing. Off came the Briton's boxer shorts and then finally his sandals. Francis smiled demoniacally down at Arthur's nude form._

_Gathering the man up in his arms France lifted the Englishman up how you would a baby or a cat and cradled him to his chest. Slipping on his flip flops Francis walked as quietly as he could, trying not to make any sudden movements to alert the Briton of movement, as he crept towards the rolling waves. Arthur's mouth fell open into a small perfect 'O' and France couldn't help but make a slight adoring noise._

_"Un, deux..." France stepped into the shallow edge of the water, letting the sea salt swirl up to around his ankles. "Trois!" dropping the Englishman into the ocean in a explosion of water the __Frenchman made a mad dash up the beach towards their bags and towels.  
>A pair of waving arms was the first thing France saw, followed by lots of splashing and the appearance of a coughing head above the waves.<br>"WHAT THE FUCK?" Arthur screeched, kicking his legs into action as he started swimming to keep himself afloat._

_France roared with laughter, clutching his sides and rolling all over the place.  
>"Ah mon dieu! Stop it, you're killing me Angleterre!" tears spiked in the Frenchman's eyes as he laughed harder.<br>"Y-YOU! YOU DID THIS? WHY YOU LITTLE!- I'M COMING FOR YOU!"  
>Francis hiccuped from shortness of breath before once more he was pushed into hysterics by the sight of the totally unaware nude England standing up out the waves.<em>

_"Look Mother! A naked man, in the sea!" a small boy called in French, pointing towards Arthur with eyes as large as dinner plates.  
>"Naked?" France heard England murmur to himself before he looked down and -<br>"OH HOLY SHIT. BLOODY HELL. WANKER. BOLLOCKS.!" buckling at the waist the Englishman leapt back down under the cover of the waves. His face was the most red France had ever seen._

_After practically dying of laughter and hiccups Francis hopped up and strolled down to the waters edge where Arthur was sitting, hugging his knees and cursing.  
>"You're such a bloody wanker, France"<br>"Oh? So vous don't want my help?"  
>"Were you going to offer any?"<br>"Hmmm..Maybe..mais...this is too good an opportunity"  
>"Wha- WOAH! NO! STAY AWAY! KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF, FRANCIS!"<em>

OoOo

Francis was jolted out of his memory by a sudden knocking at the door. At first he was hesitant to go and answer it, suppose it was Arthur once again? He didn't really want to deal with that right now, especially as the man behind the door might be battered by bruises into an unrecognisable lump.  
>Sighing slightly the Frenchman lifted himself up from his window seat and strolled over to look through the peep hole in the wooden door.<br>What he saw took him completely by surprise. His stomach twisted as though a knife was wedged in it and he found it hard to breathe all of a sudden. Amérique. He was standing on his doorstep. What on earth could he want?

"Francis, open this fuckin' door!" Alfred growled from the other side of the paintwork, France could even hear his foot tapping against the corridor floor. Mustering up all his confidence and gripping the door knob tightly Francis pulled the door open towards him.  
>America stood very close to the door frame, so much so that France flinched back when he realised. The American was wearing his usual bomber jacket yet with a plain white tee-shirt underneath that showed off his obvious muscle toning. On his legs he was wearing dark navy blue jeans and what looked like Nike trainers on his feet.<p>

Alfred's expression was one you might imagine a murderer to wear and he looked less than happy to see the Frenchman. Francis swallowed.  
>"You son of a bitch" America spat, his lips twisting up into a ugly vicious smile. His eyes looked crazy.<br>Francis couldn't speak, words were lost on his tongue. He stepped backwards, almost tripping over himself as America moved forwards, advancing.  
>It wasn't until the baseball bat was in contact with the side of his head that Francis realised the American was armed, but, of course, by then it was too late; the Frenchman was already seeing<br>stars.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	5. Chapter 5

Everything was a haze of strange shapes and bright colours as Francis attempted to lift himself up from where he had fallen in a heap on the floorboards, his legs gave way though at the effort and he fell down once more, his limbs feeling as heavy as lead. America was sitting on France's sofa, his fingertips pressed together and his lips touching to them as he thought. The American must have noticed the Frenchman's movement because he turned his head slowly and met Francis' gaze.

"You did this. This is all your fault" he said slowly, averting his eyes from France as though the mere sight of the man burnt him.  
>"It was all going to go so well, I had Arthur for once in my life and I knew he really was mine, he didn't belong to you-." Alfred's hands morphed into fists<br>"-then he kept talking about you, I don't know why, he just _did_ and it was so infuriating, I mean, he was _my_ boyfriend, why was he talking about some other guy?"

France swallowed tightly, his heart beating hard against his rib cage.  
>"-I didn't mean to hit him that hard, I just meant to give him a little tap, to warn him..I-"<br>Alfred gritted his teeth, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, "-I love him, but, I can't have you around-" once more their eyes met across the room  
>"-knowing that you're there, always there, ready to take him away from me..."<p>

"I don't want him, Amerique, I am not going to-"  
>"Bullshit! Don't lie to me!" Alfred was standing over Francis now, his eyes once more showing that demonic gleam and his hands tightened around his infamous baseball bat. France's hair was matted with dried blood and he shivered as another trickle of the crimson liquid made its way down his neck.<br>"I am not-"  
>"STOP IT!" America yelled, kicking Francis roughly in the stomach, tears spiking in his eyes<br>"Arthur is mine, MINE!" tears streamed down the American's face  
>"I am not going to lose him to you, Francis! even it if means I have to fuckin' kill you, I'll do it, god so help me, I'll do it!"<p>

_He was insane._ That was France's first thought. You couldn't reason with insane people, not in any sort of rational manor. Gasping for air as another blow to his stomach came the Frenchman clutched at his abdomen, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.  
>"I-I-"<br>"I don't want to hear another fuckin' word out of you!" a hit with the baseball bat  
>"I love England, France, and you're ruining it! You're ruining me! I'm so paranoid that you're after him that I <em>hurt<em> him, I hurt him. I'm supposed to a hero! GOD DAMN IT!"  
>Francis let out a broken scream as the baseball bat connected with his ribs and they cracked under the force, pain shot through him and he yelled through his strangled sobs.<p>

"STOP IT, AMERIQUE, PLEASE!"  
>It was all lost on America, all the pleas, all the words that the Frenchman yelled out in terror fell mute upon the American's ears. The man was too lost in his fury, his love for Arthur fuelling his actions. Francis didn't know how long it was that he was beaten, bruised and forced to shed his life blood, yet it seemed like hours. Eventually though America tired and backed away, his hands shaking and his eyes hollow. The baseball bat dropped to the floor with an empty sounding "thud." Sobbing silently the American cast one long last look down at the bleeding France before he stepped over him and hastily left out the front door without a single word.<p>

OoOo

Francis Bonnefoy looked at his form in his full body image mirror with an unusually dissatisfied expression on his face. Usually he had no trouble picking out the right clothes or choosing the right way to style his hair but today... he was lost. Touching fingers gently to his taped up ribs Francis remembered the way his doctor had stared at him in disbelief and the way he all but begged him to let the surgery call an ambulance to take him to the hospital.

_"Monsieur Bonnefoy, these injuries are grave! There may be internal bleeding!"  
>"I am in no need of special treatment. Tape my ribs up and do my stitches and I shall be on my way, no?"<br>"I suppose so...but Monsieur-"  
>"No buts, I do not want a big deal to be made of this"<br>A resigned sigh and a nod of the doctor's head "As you wish, Monsieur Bonnefoy"_

The doctor had done a sufficient job yet the pain was still bad enough for France to have to swallow countless aspirins and despite how much he tried to withstand the need to pop pills he found himself doing more so with every day that passed. Leaning forwards to examine his appearance closer in the mirror Francis lifted a hand up to the raised ridges on his head and scowled "So ugly" he muttered, prodding at the numerous stitches and wincing slightly. It turned out that America had done his fair share of damage after all, what with the broken ribs, stitches and the colourful patchwork quilt of bruises that had sprung up all over the Frenchman's body.

Adding the finishing touches to his foundation and looking sufficiently less black and blue under the make-up France quickly strolled into his bedroom to pick up his clothes for the day; he was already running three hours late for the UN meeting and he didn't honestly want to have to face Germany's wrath today of all days. Tugging on a low V neck blue silk shirt and pulling on some white jeans France stood awkwardly in the middle of his bedroom, indecision running through his veins. After a second he decided he didn't honestly care about his appearance all too much today so he just ran the hairbrush gently through his blonde locks, wincing as the strands of hair were pulled tight against his raw skin, before grabbing a white beret and placing it jauntily over his wounds.

Sighing deeply at what he would soon have to endure at this month's meeting France bit his lip tenderly, refusing to let himself cry; he would see Arthur, god knows what he looked like now, it had been months, Alfred could've done all manner of things to the man in that space of time. And then of course there was the inevitable: America would be at the meeting. Feeling an iron first close around his heart Francis whirled around and headed straight for his jewellery box. Gently doing up the clasp on the gold necklace France lay Jeanne's cross over his heart and held it tightly in his palm: he could've sworn it warmed to his touch. For today at least he would he protected by his guardian angel.

OoOo

The journey to the Arena Board, unlike the previous time when France had begrudgingly driven Arthur and had to put up with the Briton's never-ending curses, was rather pleasant. The sky was a blanket of puffy white clouds and in places the sun trickled down as though making staircases down from heaven.

Deafened by the impeccable silence of the motorway for once Francis reached across to the radio and spun the silver dial twice to secure it to his favourite station. Familiar chimes of the breakfast shows well known jingle filled the car before the melody quickly faded off and came back as the drum solo for a new song by some heavy metal band Francis had never heard of. Unfortunately for the Frenchman the screaming collaboration of guitars and depressing lyrics bought back memories of Arthur's punk years and before long France was seeing a black and red clad Arthur with numerous piercings smirking at him from his minds eye.

The punk surveyed this older France with a boggled expression, obviously not sure what to make of him. He then sneered and said "I knew you'd get jealous eventually."  
>France gritted his teeth, testing the break on his Peugeot as he came to a red light.<br>"I do not need this right now"  
>Punk England snorted "Sure you do – I'm your subconscious, I know what's going on up here"<br>Raising his thin eyebrows up at this strange turn of events France let out a sort of laughing cough "If vous are in _my_ head why are vous a image of Arthur in his punk outfit?"

In his mind the mini Arthur smirked "Oh? You don't like the choice of attire? I guess I could..." mist obscured England before he could finish talking and Francis let out a brief sigh of relief thinking his ordeal was over. To the right hand side of the car France could now see The Arena Board doused in sunshine, the tall glass windows glittering like jewels. Turning the steering wheel to the right and clicking the indicator lights on Francis smoothly pulled up the tree lined driveway, past the sign that Arthur had translated on their previous visit and into the grid pattern car park where he could already see some of the Nation's recognisable vehicles parked side by side, including England's Mini and America's large Hummer which had a spray painted Eagle on the bonnet.

Just as France began manoeuvring himself into a rather remote parking space (nearer to Germany's car then he'd like but at least far enough away from England and America's) that same foggy thought of Arthur swam back into his mind, a sly smile on its lips as it gestured down at its new attire "Better?" it purred. France slammed down on the breaks so hard he lurched forward out of his seat, narrowly missing whacking his head on the dashboard, before slamming back against the head rest, the seatbelt now cutting into him tightly like ropes as he breathed hard.

The image of Arthur in his waiters outfit, consisting of a black flap of material for an apron and the cuffs of a white shirt the only clothing upon his nude form, laughed at the reaction he got from the Frenchman. "Merde!" Francis shrieked, quickly turning off the engine and snapping his seatbelt off before tumbling out of his car door. He stared in horror at the smashed in lights and bumper of his car.

"MERDE!" he yelled louder in frustration, glaring at the broken glass and plastic as though if he stared long enough he could guilt it into repairing itself. It seemed as though despite him wearing her cross Jeanne was elsewhere today and unable to be his guardian angel. Slowly Francis became aware of the sneaking suspicion he was being watched and stiffly he raised his face up to look at the Arena Board meeting building.

On days such as this the all glass modern structure was perfect as it gave you a lovely view of France from the windows yet, unfortunately, due to this design it became apparent that all the countries had heard the commotion and were now staring down at him in bewilderment through one of the glass panels. America just looked insanely smug. Frozen to the spot with embarrassment France continued gazing up at the third floor window, his cheeks now staining red as a lump in his throat cut off his ability to talk. In the far corner of the huddle of countries stood Arthur who, thankfully, wasn't wearing any skimpy attire but his regular brown suit and an expression of deep exasperation, his thick eyebrows raised up to his hairline.

After a moment or so Germany began making "get here or else" gestures through the glass and France concluded he was probably better off going home later with his head still attached to his body rather than stowed in the boot of Ludwig' BMW so with a sigh he locked up his car and, putting a hand against his aching ribs that had been agitated during the collision, began slowly hobbling towards the building's lobby.

OoOo

Amazingly Germany seemed to have lost a degree of his temper after he saw France not striding as he usually did but dragging himself into the meeting room, his forehead plastered in sweat and his back hunched over as he held his taped up ribs in a vain attempt to stop the pain.  
>"Such a bitch when the elevator is broken right?" America called cheerfully across the room, spitefulness dripping from his every pore.<br>Francis cast an exhausted hate filled look at the American as he fell into his chair wincing and spat back "Maybe it wouldn't have been such a bad journey if my ribs weren't broken" America's smile faded. Arthur looked across at Alfred with a suspicious expression before his eyes flicked across to Francis who nodded at him as though to confirm those fears.

Since the last time France had seen England several new bruises had appeared on the Briton's usually pale alabaster skin. Black and purple marks trailed down Arthur's neck and judging by the way he was wincing whenever he bought his teacup up to his lips the damage had probably extended to his shoulders and arms. His usually bright green eyes were darkened by huge bags beneath them no doubt from lack of sleep. America didn't look so good either; he had obviously been punched in the face quite recently and one of his eyes was surrounded by a yellowing hue, he also seemed stiff with movement no doubt also suffering from blows to the chest.

Swallowing back the urge to vomit at the idea that Arthur hadn't gone down without a fight France watched brokenly as despite everything Arthur reached across the table and and entwined Alfred's fingers with his.  
>"QUIET!" Germany bellowed above the barely existent conversations that were taking place around the oval wood table in the sunlight lit room. Francis averted his eyes from the couple sitting opposite him who were now holding hands quite obviously under the table.<br>"Despite our disturbances-" Ludwig continued, casting a (if a bit softer) glare in France's general direction "-we are now ready to start" he hit a wooden stick to the chalkboard propped up in front of the touch screen board with such force that it even made Russia flinch a bit, although that could've been because Ivan had been asleep.

"The subject for today is saving money" Germany announced, scowling at each country in turn as though blaming each one individually. Several audible groans echoed around the room. Francis decided to zone out then, to block out his surroundings and concentrate solely on getting through the next four hours alive. Whereas before loud bellows escaped from Germany's lips all France now heard was a faint distant hum almost like the 'voice' of Charlie Brown's teacher.

Smiling and nodding occasionally in mock understanding France continued his mastered art of ignoring and turned his attention instead to scrutinising his fellow nations. Japan and North Italy sat huddled together near Ludwig' end of the table, Kiku was gazing peacefully up at the blackboard Germany was now scraping a piece of chalk across to write bullet points with a look a look of polite respect and Feliciano was drawing little pictures of what looked like pasta bowls across his note pages, obviously having been denied food until the designated lunching hour.

Further along the table sat Russia and China, Ivan wearing a creepily complacent smile on his face as usual which the other countries had taken to mean he was plotting something evil and should be steered clear of and China who was circling areas on a map of the world with a pensive expression, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. France presumed he was scouting out new places to build more China Towns.

Lastly Francis let his blue eyes drift to the side of the oak table opposite him he had been pretending had vanished into thin air. Alfred now had an arm draped lazily across the back of Arthur's chair which obviously was grating on England's last nerve. Watching the couple cautiously in case any great fight should suddenly break out France noted that the two nation's hands were still entwined and upon further inspection noticed that America's features were lit up by a genuine smile and England's cheeks were stained a beetroot red colour which was usually only prompted by a feeling of devotion being forced upon him. How on earth could they still be in love after all that had and still was happening? They were quite literally killing each other yet neither one was smart enough to see it.

Francis held Jeanne's cross in his palm and closed his eyes, sending a silent prayer that perhaps everything would sort itself out. Noticing the sudden interest that the Frenchman had developed in him and his partner Alfred cast a look that chilled Francis to the very bone across the table before a malicious smile warped his usually childlike features. Only once had France seen that look on the American's face : when he had been fighting for his independence from Arthur. He had been more monster than man back then.

Dropping his eyes down to his notes France pulled his beret lower on his head so to obscure his vision and held Jeanne's necklace as tight as he could. A ghostly caress brushed against his cheek and he smiled grimly "Please save him Jeanne...I beg of vous" he whispered, closing his eyes tightly against the tears that threatened to fall as he pressed his lips softly to the warmed gold of the cross.

OoOo

Several hours passed and much to France's anxiety he was forced to stand up in front of the other nations and "read out his money saving plans." Apparently he should have sketched these notes up months ago but having had other things occupying him, namely the mistreatment of the man he loved and the wrath of his irrational partner, Francis had overlooked this particular piece of homework.

"So..." France started, suddenly finding it hard to talk past the lump that had once again clogged up his throat as Arthur watched him with those captivating emerald eyes.  
>"I will cut down on my amount of imports" France said slowly, his ribs and head aching with the effort of improvising.<br>"I will...stop mass producing wine-" his voice cracked slightly at the thought of all that beautiful fruit going to waste. Ludwig gave him a stern look and and unwillingly he mumbled "-and clothes...and perfume" he swore he would've broken down right there in agonising tears at the thought of his country's pride being restricted if Alfred hadn't perked up just then and called  
>"Maybe you should cut down on the amount of money you pour into all your brothels"<p>

France let out a noise of stifled anger before he all but yelled back over Alfred's infuriatingly comic sounding laughter "Maybe vous should stop making fast food joints! Then maybe your people wouldn't have to waddle everywhere!" It was a cheap shot yet it seemed to do the trick. America's face transformed from a mocking smile to thunderous rage in a split second, his nostrils flared and he shot up from his seat, slamming his hands on the table making everyone jump.

"Hey man, not cool. You take that back!"  
>"Why should I?"<br>"'Cus...'cus...just do it!"  
>"Or what?"<br>"I'll-"  
>"You'll get your people to trample me to death?"<br>"YOU SHUT YOUR FACE BEFORE I BEAT THE SHIT OUTTA YOU AGAIN!"

"QUIET!" Arthur shrieked, shoving his chair back from the table and turning his puce with rage face between the two nations in disbelief. "Stop it right now, both of you!" he raised his hands above his head "You're acting like bloody children!" The room was deadly silent, save for a quietly 'kol kol'ing' Russia who was gazing at this new development in childish wonder. England placed a steady hand on Alfred's arm and repeated slowly "Stop."

America looked down to Arthur with eyes so filled with rage France feared for a second Alfred might strike his partner right then and there. Alas he just sighed, his shoulders falling as though in defeat. "You're right, I'm sorry, that was immature of me" America returned Arthur's smile before slowly turning towards Francis once more.

His eyes were still as cold and hard as flint yet a smile found its way onto his features and America said "Sorry man, truce?" Francis looked in disbelief at the American's outstretched hand, feeling slightly revolted by the whole situation. He nodded stiffly. Sensing his authority had been undermined Germany came over and placed a firm hand on France's shoulder.  
>"I think that is enough debate for now. Lunch time everyone, we meet back here in one hour. Do not be late" Arthur took Alfred's hand and tugged him out the room avoiding France's gaze. Japan, Italy, China and Russia quickly followed suit.<p>

Ludwig still hadn't released his hold on France's shoulder and Francis shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.  
>"What did he mean by 'again'?"<br>"Hmm?"  
>"America. He said he'd beat the 'shit' out of you again"<br>"Oh..."  
>The hand squeezed his shoulder unusually sympathetically for the person the hand belonged to<br>"I wondered why you were in such bad shape"  
>France cleared his throat "Don't make a big deal out of this. Please"<p>

Germany sighed yet nodded slowly "As you wish." he drew back his hand and Francis let out a prolonged breath. Nodding his head in return as a thank-you he headed as swiftly as he could to the door out to the corridor. Just as his hand turned the doorknob Germany's voice drifted across the room once more "Keep safe France." Moved and slightly unnerved by this unusual act of kindness Francis mumbled "merci" before hurriedly rushing out the meeting room and crashing straight into the man who had been eavesdropping outside.

Both men stumbled backwards a couple of steps before Francis managed to regain his balance and help the other blonde haired individual to stand upright.  
>"Arthur?" he asked blankly when the man lifted his face up to look guiltily at the Frenchman.<br>"Where vous waiting for me?" he asked, his eyebrows raising slightly.  
>"What? No! Of course not, don't be stupid" England scoffed, averting his eyes and ringing his hands out as though anxiously.<br>"Where is Amerique?"  
>"In the café"<br>"Ah, I see...and vous aren't there because?"  
>"I..." Arthur swallowed "I forgot my wallet"<p>

France narrowed his eyes "You're lying" Arthur's eyes widened slightly and Francis leapt at the chance to actually talk some sense into the arrogant Briton "Why are vous still with him when he is doing this to vous?"  
>Taken aback by this sudden subject change yet obviously too run down to pretend not to know what Francis was referring to Arthur said as though reading from a script "I love him"<br>"Why? All he does is beat the hell out of you, Angleterre, all you do is argue!" England's eyes narrowed and he took a step towards France.  
>"What, so, I'm meant to just leave my boyfriend because we have had a couple of fights? That's what normal couples do in a healthy relationship, Frog!"<br>"If you think that what you're in is a healthy relationship then I pity you, Arthur"

Breathing hard in anger and pain from his injuries France stepped away from England brashly as though the mere sight of the man burned him.  
>"I would never treat you this way-" he met Arthur's gaze steadily "-maybe one day you'll see that"<br>Before England could retort Francis turned on his heel and set off down the hallway, took a left, then a right and then began the painful journey back down the stairs. Through the mists of pain that now fogged his mind France thought with a resigned sigh that he should probably use this time wisely and call the car insurance company.

OoOo

After a fruitless ten minute conversation with the brain numbingly dumb lady at the reception desk about getting his car repaired France managed to obtain a number for the insurance company which he promptly sat down and rang. In half an hours time the tow truck would arrive to take his precious car away for service. Now the only question was...how would he get home?

Supposedly Arthur would rather eat his own arm off than drive him back to his house so that option was most definitely out. As though he had heard his thoughts a rather flustered looking England scurried across his path, his lips set in a determined line. Francis noticed that the Briton was slightly hunched over on himself, his right hand cradled to his chest. Fighting down the urge to scream France moved painfully towards the Englishman, lumbering almost, clutching his searing ribs. When Arthur caught sight of the impending blonde his eyes widened considerably and he all but broke into a sprint out the lobby doors.

"ANGLETERRE! WAIT! I could...bandage your hand" France trailed off resignedly, watching the Briton run as though for his life away from him. Deflating slightly from his ignored efforts to be kind Francis hobbled back over to the lounge chairs situated near the reception desk and collapsed into one clumsily.  
>"So rude" he pouted as he replayed Arthur's grand escape in his mind.<br>"I used to help him with battle wounds all the time..."

OoOo

_A broken sobbing England lay curled up on the grand four poster bed in his bedroom, his bloodied red coat still upon his shoulders and his mud soiled boots still upon his feet. This feeble unrecognisable man howled rage filled tears, his face buried in a soft feather pillow so to muffle the noise._

_Francis sat silently on the end of the bed, watching his friend's heartbreak with sorrowful eyes.  
>"Angleterre-"<br>"FUCK OFF! You sided with him...y-you betrayed me just as he did"  
>It was indeed true that France had backed the young colonial America in his revolution yet deep in the pit of his stomach, despite all his countless reasons for doing so, he felt ashamed that he'd let down one of his friends so badly.<em>

_"Vous are bleeding...let me help vous" France reached across to begin carefully peeling away the sweat and blood stained jacket from Arthur's person yet was batted away by a frustrated hand.  
><em>_"I am perfectly fine. Leave me be"  
>"Do not be such a baby Angleterre" Francis tutted, reaching over again and getting a firm hold on the crimson material which he then began to yank on.<em>

_Pain filled wails filled the mansion houses room as the process of separating material from punctured skin took place. England, now lying on his back, was scrunching his hands into fists so tightly you could see the whites of his tendons. Water streamed from his eyes as he fought to keep them from flying open at every new bout of pain. After a gruesome twenty minute extraction the red coat was finally freed from the Englishman's body and France threw the item of clothing as far away from them as he could. Whilst he had Arthur in a calmer state Francis also took up the opportunity to dispose of England's boots which had been dirtying the bed sheets and annoying him for quite some time._

_France let out a sigh of relief. All in all Arthur's injuries weren't so bad; he had numerous cuts and bruises across his chest, neck and arms but other than that nothing catastrophic. When England had first arrived home after the battle he had sworn the place down, tearing paintings of him and Alfred off the walls and screaming at any maid or butler in sight "YOU ARE DISMISSED!"  
>It was unusually quiet in the house now and the silence was beginning to creep Francis out.<em>

_Reaching over for the bowl of warm water and a cloth France had managed to extract from a rather hysterical maid who had been in the midst of tossing her few belongings into a suitcase Francis now dipped the flannel into the liquid and let it dampen before he rung it out and reached over to press the cloth to a particularly deep cut on the left side of Arthur's chest that was flowing crimson._

_Maybe it was because Arthur had taken a sudden strange liking to the Frenchman or was just too run down to care yet France was surprised that the great British Empire would allow himself to be cared for in this way. Then with a sudden degrading thought Francis realised: this was like being sponged down by a maid to the Briton. No wonder he looked so damn smug; he was basically watching France be his slave!_

_Scrubbing intentionally harder now at the Briton's wounds Francis slowly worked over all the cuts and dried blood until the once pearly white flannel and crystal clear water were both dyed a hideous brown-red colour.  
>"You are dis-"<br>"Non, non. I am not finished with vous yet" France interrupted, enjoying the appalled look he saw on Arthur's face at one of his 'staff' talking back to him.  
>From his pocket Francis extracted a large wad of cloth he had nicked from one of the butler's possessions and began ripping the material up into thin strips with his teeth. England looked disgusted.<em>

_By the time the Frenchman pulled back with a triumphant smile and announced with a flourish "ta da!" Arthur was looking more like a mummy than a man. His arms, chest and neck were tightly bound with white cloth and his expression looked somewhat pained.  
>"I think it looks excellent, even if I do say so myself" France continued, gazing in awe at his handiwork.<em>

_"I can't bloody breathe!" Arthur gasped, clutching at the cloth around his neck and attempting desperately to loosen it. Rolling his eyes slightly Francis reached across and pulled on one of his expert bows so the cloth fell apart slightly. England gulped in huge lungfuls of air "wanker" he spat.  
>"I think the word vous are looking for is thank-you" Francis said scathingly.<br>__  
>By sundown France had listened to almost every excuse in the book for Alfred's absence, including such things as "he obviously could not handle my social status" and "maybe he was tricked into doing it!" All of which were of course ludicrous. Sighing in exasperation Francis hauled himself up off the bed and rubbed his sore muscles as pins and needles shot through his veins: his reward for sitting in the same position for hours on end.<em>

_"Where do you think you are going?" Arthur snapped abruptly, suddenly looking rather panicked.  
>"Home. I do not live here."<br>"Oh..." Arthur lowered his eyes "Y-yes, yes of course" a moments silence "off with you then"  
>It was an odd sensation, the one of being needed. France had come to the conclusion that after their childhood years Arthur would no longer need him by his side, especially now of all times when he was so strong in the world. Indirectly Francis took this as a invitation to stay and his heart thumped hard in his chest as he realised that England was undoubtedly lonely: especially after just saying goodbye to America, the man he'd cared for from a boy.<em>

_"I can stay if vous would like me to"  
>"Would you?"<br>"Maybe" Arthur's eyes lowered to the bed, as though as he embarrassed at how much he was going against his personal rules of not needing anyone.  
>"Stay" This one word was like music to his ears and Francis stared in disbelief down at the Englishman.<br>"I will" he smiled softly "who knows, I may never leave" England shot him a incredibly panicked look and he laughed "Do not worry, I am kidding"  
>"Are you?" Arthur asked cautiously, having grown to know the Frenchman all too well to trust him outright.<em>

_"Maybe, maybe not" Arthur's face contorted to look absolutely panic stricken and France laughed heartily once more, sitting down on the bed where he had sat before and putting his hand over England's who flinched at the contact.  
>"I am here for as long as vous need me"<em>

OoOo

"Yet even when I am here now vous still are too proud to ask for help..." France grumbled to himself, coming out of his memory with a sour expression. He supposed in a way he took that day for granted as Arthur was never as willing again for his company (well, not sober anyway.) Good things never lasted though, he had to learn that the hard way.

Tapping his fingers against his knee as he sat waiting for the lunch hour to finish Francis felt oddly at ease; for the first time in months he wasn't being hounded and he finally had a moment to just sit back and re-  
>"Hey, Francis!" France's eyes opened very slowly, as though tricking himself into thinking that the longer he prolonged his reaction the more likely it would be that the American would get fed up and leave him be. Alas when the Frenchman opened his eyes he came face to face with America all the same. So much for peace and quiet.<p>

"What is it?" he snapped, still burning with hatred for the man who had beat the very two people he loved the most: Arthur and himself. Alfred forced a grin onto his face before exclaiming rapidly "Iggy wants to talk to you"  
>"He does?" France asked blankly, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.<br>"Yeah-" America nodded quickly like a child trying to make its parent believe in their hair brained story "-said something about wanting to make up"  
>"Really?"<br>"'Course man, I wouldn't lie to you" when Francis just gaze him a sceptical look Alfred gushed on "he's upstairs in the meeting room so...you comin' or not?"

Ordinarily Francis would've ignored America and gone about his more important business but seeming as this predicament involved Arthur and he currently had no business to be getting on with France was stumped for a reason to not just go along with this invitation.  
>"D'accord" he said slowly before noticing Alfred's confused expression at the use of a language he had no grasp on at all and he quickly translated "OK – I'll come"<br>America smiled broadly "Great!"

They travelled in silence up the three flights of stairs, Francis making sure not to trip over America's big feet the whole way there, before they finally arrived outside the wooden door that was marked 'G8.'  
>"Just in there?" Francis asked, gesturing with his thumb as he hobble-walked over to place his hand on the doorknob.<br>"Mm-hm" Alfred nodded, still smiling. Ignoring the American Francis mustered up his confidence, put on his best "I'm sorry" face and stepped into the room.

"Angleterre, I-" he stopped dead in his tracks. The door swung shut behind him and Alfred with a loud 'click.'  
>"Where is Arthur?" France asked, peering round the empty tables and chairs as though half expecting England to be crouched there ready to jump out at him.<br>"No idea, probably looking for me" Alfred's footsteps came right up behind France and he stiffened, feeling America's hot breath on his neck.  
>"And they call me the stupid one – this was way too easy"<br>France spun around and glared at America, his eyes full of poison.  
>"So what is your plan? To beat me up again?"<p>

Laughingly coldly Alfred shrugged his shoulder nonchalantly "Whatever it takes."  
>"To what?"<br>"Keep you out of Arthur's life." Both men stared each other down, their hatred for each other obvious in their facial expressions. Getting him out of the Englishman's life completely would be an extreme improbability and judging by the way America was seething with rage he knew that much. Francis wouldn't put it past the man to kill him to get him out the picture. To be frank, France would just love to see him try. A fleeting thought came to Francis then as he stared at a new bruise on America's cheek bone. Perhaps Arthur had hurt his hand trying to punch Alfred earlier? A act of revenge on France's behalf at being abused for helping England? This thought did little to calm France's temper.

"That will never happen"  
>"You want a bet?" Alfred sneered, his teeth bared as though he were an animal. It was ironic in a way Francis supposed; Alfred has turned into some sort of monster during the revolution and had ended up causing England extreme anguish and now history was repeating itself except now France and the prospect of love were thrown into the mix.<p>

The sound of a door opening knocked Francis out of his reminiscing and he began turning his head to greet the cause of the much appreciated intrusion when a pair of hands grabbed the front of his silk shirt, hurling him forwards. Alfred crashed his lips to France's roughly. Francis' brain began screaming at him and through the mist of shock and disgust France began raising his hands to push the American away yet Alfred got there first.

Tumbling back into a wooden chair and nearly falling to his feet from the force of the throw Francis looked up just in time to see America glare outraged at him and yell "Ohmygod dude, get away from me!" Staring perplexed at Alfred with his jaw hanging slack at a loss of what to say Francis followed America's line of sight and felt his blood turn to ice.

Arthur stood in the doorway, one now bandaged hand on the door handle and the other grasping a take-away cup of what France presumed must be coffee for America. The cup slid out of the Briton's fingertips and exploded soundlessly all over the carpet yet England didn't even take notice; his large green eyes were focused solely on France, a look of undisguised anguish and horror stealing his features.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	6. Chapter 6

It was silent. France could feel his heart beating away like a mad thing in his chest and could hear his shallow sketchy breathing as he tried desperately not to hyperventilate, or worse, pass out. Alfred's look of masked horror at Francis' supposed forced kiss had slowly faded away and now the American looked almost sickeningly eager to see his partner's response to the sordid happening that had taken place. France noted that America was clenching his shaking fists up in anticipation and he swallowed back the bile that had risen to his throat.

The first sign of life from the Englishman: he laughed. Of all the reactions Francis had been counting on hilarity was not one of them. Arthur continued to chortle out a strangled merriment before he managed to get out "This is a joke. Oh, I wonder how on earth you can say you love me when you go around kissing people behind my back – is it jealousy? Hmm? Is it a way to get my attention? Well I would very much like to say that perhaps if I had any sense left in my head after being pushed to and fro and treated like shit I could begin to give a damn!" the Briton's voice rose to an almighty roar.

"What is this achieving? You have me so why are you being so possessive? I'm not your bloody property!-" France frowned and looked unintelligently at England before opening his mouth to speak only to find he was cut short "-you sicken me. You have taken my confidence and God have mercy on you for what you've done to me physically! Do you think this makes me love you any more?" Arthur pointed an accusatory finger at the black bruises on his face with a half frenzied look. It wasn't until this point that Francis realised that these tortured words weren't directed at him but at the dumbfounded American standing across from him gaping at his partner in utter bewilderment. His plan had backfired.

"You do love me though, you said you did only this morning!"  
>"And God knows why!"<br>"Iggy, don't do this, I know you're angry but-"  
>"But WHAT exactly? You claim you love me only to beat me up, make my life a living hell and go after one of my friends because you're so <em>paranoid<em> he's going to steal me away! And then you beat _him_ up to!"

The Frenchman couldn't help a little bit of a smile spreading onto his face at the Briton admitting they were indeed friends yet his joy was short lived as the American caught sight of his glee and yelled "Look at him! He obviously wants you! This is what he wants! He's been playing games with me, mind games. I always have to be a step ahead incase he does something to you!" Alfred pounded his fists against his own skull, as though fighting inner demons. "I have to be the hero, _your_ hero, but I can't because he's always there ready to fuck things up between us!"

"For _GOD'S_ sake!" England shrieked, burying his face in his hands before yelling "It may come as a surprise to you Alfred but did it ever occur to you that he may have been _joking_?"  
>"Oh – right. So when I saw him <em>kiss<em> you that was him 'joking' was it? Cus' it looked pretty damn real to me!"  
>Both France and England blanched and shouted in unison "What?"<br>"The day Iggy and I hooked up and you drove him here. I saw you kiss Arthur after yelling the frickin' place down!"  
>"Amérique, that wasn't-"<br>"That wasn't anything." Arthur snapped, looking nervous now.

Alfred's eyes bore into France's. "Fine. If you're so _not_ into England then say it. Right here, right now. Admit you don't have any feelings for him and I'll never bother you again." It was as though someone has shone a spotlight down on him and he felt both the countries' eyes on him, scrutinising his every movement. It made him feel incredibly uneasy: his palms were moist and clammy and his ribs ached with abandon. _Just say it – get it over with. Then everything goes back to normal, Arthur will be happy once more. Just say it – it'll make you happy too. Back to your beautiful self with hundreds of girls falling at your feet. But..._ France faltered as his heart ached painfully at these thoughts of moving on and something inside his head clicked into place. He couldn't let Arthur go. He _wouldn't._

"Don't be ridiculous – he may be a shameless flirt but none of that meant anything; he likes all those girls he hooks up with. Tell him Francis, you and I both know that you weren't ser-"  
>"I can't"<br>"What?"  
>"I can't lie to vous" France whispered, his blonde hair falling into his eyes as he hung is head in shame.<p>

America barked out a triumphant laugh at the look of confusion and surprise on his partner's face before jeering "What did I tell you? I knew it all along. I had a right to be paranoid!" the thought that the American deemed his abuse justified because of the Frenchman's feelings sickened France to the core yet he was too busy jumping hurdles in his thoughts to think of a reason as to why this knowledge should shock England.

All their childhood experiments, their adventures, the kiss full of Francis' jealousy, the talk in his apartment about Alfred...Francis did a double take. Hadn't Arthur admitted then that he was aware of France's feelings for him? What had he said...yes, that was right, France had asked what England had meant when he had said earlier that day that he needed him and Arthur had responded with _"Exactly what I said...I need you, even if it's not in the way you would like"_ so the Briton _had_ known! Then why was he acting so amazed at this information now? After all, Arthur had also kissed him of his own accord...

"Tell me vous don't feel the same, Angleterre"  
>"I beg your pardon?"<br>"Tell me vous love Alfred and not me"  
>"Well I do-"<br>"You're doing it again! You're lying. Vous knew how I felt. Why are vous pretending?"

Alfred stepped behind Arthur and placed a possessive hand on the Briton's shoulder which he promptly shrugged off. Francis watched as England's face expressed a hundred conflicted emotions.  
>"Don't be absurd. I don't know what you're on about frog!"<br>"Do do this Arthur"  
>"Do what?" The Englishman laughed forcefully, looking at America behind him jerkily.<br>"You're lying! You're prioritising his happiness over your own! I know-"

"ENOUGH!" America bellowed suddenly, his face a mask of anguish. "he loves me, not you, get that into your fuckin' head!"  
>"I want to hear <em>him<em> say it!"  
>"He doesn't need to explain anything to you!"<br>"Angleterre – please"

The Frenchman stepped forwards, his hands outstretched towards the Briton as though pleading with him. Arthur looked the most vulnerable France had ever seen him and that was unnerving. England was always proud, boasting, a stiff upper lipped gentleman. He never willingly showed fear. In his hasty movements France's beret fell from his head as he stopped before England, revealing the jagged network of stitches across his scalp from America's beatings. Arthur started at these injuries with an unreadable expression as Alfred's renewed grip on him tightened.

"Don't make me do this-" the new weaker side of England whispered, his green emerald eyes wide and panic stricken "- don't make me choose." As much as he wanted an answer Francis couldn't bear the pained look in Arthur's eyes – he knew what it must be asking of the man to choose who he wanted to love or lose. Francis imagined he'd feel a similar conflict if he were asked to choose between fine cuisine or sex.

Alfred however felt differently than Francis as he let out a primal sounding growl and spat "Choose. Me or him. Do you love him?"  
>"Amérique, don't – he loves vous, it's over. Vous won" France said numbly, barely feeling himself say the words as he watched Arthur's eyes fill up with silent tears that his pride couldn't allow him to shed.<p>

As England parted his lips to speak the sound of the meeting room door opening was heard and all three countries turned around to see Germany scowling down at the stained carpet and the discarded coffee cup. Francis quickly replaced his beret, America let his hand fall away from England and Arthur dried up his eyes. "Who's is this?" Ludwig asked snappishly.  
>"Mine. Sorry, I...I tripped. Bloody business shoes, you know?" England laughed awkwardly before walking over and retrieving the polystyrene holder as Germany looked suspiciously down at the Briton's quite obviously non business brown suede comfort shoes. The German sighed exasperatedly, deciding not to push the matter any further.<p>

"Right...anyway – the meeting now resumes. You are required to sit and take notes. I presume you can all do that?" Ludwig looked at Arthur, Alfred and Francis with a warning look as though they were naughty school children.  
>"Yes..."<br>"Yeah..."  
>"Oui..."<br>"Good. Now take your seats whilst we wait for the others to arrive. It's a miracle anyone is early, least of all you three."

OoOo

In the Frenchman's mind's eye the events that had passed earlier had ended with a narrative very much like this one: _"Angleterre's perfect pink lips had opened fractionally, his green eyes glimmering with tears that sparkled like jewels as he thought of a way to express his undying love for the Frenchman before he was rudely cut short by the arrival of angry Allemagne."_

For the duration of the rest of the meeting Francis held on to that scene in his mind, editing it sometimes on it's numerous replays so that instead of Germany being there England actually admitted his love and the two countries then proceeded to hungrily make out on the office table with America, held captive and chained to a chair, forced to watch. In some versions France had fed Alfred to sharks before the making out and Arthur had marvelled at his intense muscle to hold the American down whilst he was devoured piece by piece, all the while screaming out for mercy...

Francis mentally shook himself. The odds were seriously stacked against right now and he should accept that. Even with there being a slight chance that Arthur had been harbouring feelings for him over the last few months it would be seriously unlikely that Arthur would admit to them as for one it involved admitting to having feelings which Arthur had never been very good at anyway and two, admitting he was in love with Francis would make the Frenchman very happy, an emotion the Briton had been trying to avoid France feeling for centuries. Oh, and also not to mention the slight problem of the paranoid psycho American boyfriend who on realising the Briton's feelings might steadily turn to a life of crime, abuse and drugs and live out the rest of his days as a recluse who could trust no-one. Things were not looking up.

Sighing slightly in defeat at the ridiculous situation he had got himself involved in Francis once again let his thoughts drift back to Arthur and his trouble with expressing his emotions. To France the inability to love freely and be self confident as as foreign to him as another language – well, that wasn't so true now since he had found himself stuttering and acting like a pubescent teenage boy over his forbidden feelings for England – but even so, his usual demeanour usually had no trouble at all with being a suave flirt bursting with confident bravado.

Arthur had always had an odd way of dealing with affection: moreover he _didn't_ deal with it. When someone showed an interest in him, whether it be friendship or a physical attraction he would always do one of two things: either he would act distant and stutter, blush and swear away his feelings or he would remain silent and sit there smug in the knowledge that someone liked _him_ and not a fellow country. Either way he would always end up alone, usually by the person taking his snappish comments and brusque responses to signs of affection as the Briton not having any mutual responsive feelings. This however was not the case yet Arthur had never been comfortable or knowledgeable in how to act around people who are sweet on him – leading him to panic and withdraw even further into his shell.

What England needed was, France concluded, _him._ The stubborn Brit needed to be with someone who was not afraid to flaunt his love and be publicly intimate. Even though Arthur could be very loud and hurl insults left right and centre when he chose (a trait that had undeniably been passed down to America) he turned into a person even more secluded than Japan in the face of dealing with actual emotions. What England needed was a gorgeous self confident Frenchman to boost his confidence up and realise that to be in love and let yourself be vulnerable, allowing the other person to break down your barriers, wasn't a sin or a death wish.

Yet first of all, he had to get rid of Alfred. France's previous resolve of not interfering with Arthur's love life had been abandoned as soon as he realised that England may be re-evaluating his options. Glancing over to the Briton Francis couldn't help but feel a little bit smug at how Arthur was quite obviously giving America the cold shoulder and was hitting the man's hand away when he tried to place it on his thigh, suggesting what France didn't want to consider. When Francis had placed his hand however on Arthur's thigh that winter night in 2006 hitting France away had been the last thing on his mind, or so Francis liked to think so...

OoOo

**December 24th 2006 – The Unicorn Pub, East Sussex, England. 10:58 PM**

_Francis couldn't tell what it was making him feel this way, the crackling log fire beating out the frost of the chill winter's night, the merrily singing carol singers sat together in the corner (only half in tune though he hated to admit it), the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed or perhaps, just maybe, it was due to the Englishman kissing him square on the mouth – although he supposed he had the alcohol as well as his own charms to thank for that one._

_Giggling slightly and hiccuping the Frenchman pulled back to look at Arthur who was looking incredibly glassy eyed and severely put out that their kiss had been cut short. Smiling sloppily France pecked the Briton's lips once more before exclaiming in a dramatic sigh "I'd love to Angleterre but seeing as both vous-" he pointed a finger off centre at England's chest "-and moi-" he gestured to his own chest "-are not in our, how do vous say it? Right minds – I would be taking __advantage of your ill nature, non?"_

_Blinking moronically at the use of such long words when his brain was so fuzzy from drink Arthur scowled, grabbing his beer and sloshing some clumsily into his lap as he a took a hearty swig.  
>"America took advantage of me, that bloody git. I was the only one who cared for him in the whole fuckin' world yet he couldn't care less and he went like...like...POOF!" the Englishman mimicked several dramatic explosions with his hands, slurring out sound effects as he went. Finding this hilarious for some reason unbeknown to him Francis laughed until his sides ached and dropped a hand to the Briton's shoulder.<em>

_"Here's to the ones who screw up our lives, non?" he chortled, grabbing his own glass and clinking it against England's as the other man nodded feverishly with a pronounced yell of "cheers to that!" before they both drained their cups of the remaining liquor. The evening passed very much in this fashion until the countdown for Christmas was upon them. France had a long fingered hand resting on the Briton's thigh, trying out his own experiment to see how far he could slink up the man's trouser leg without him realising – apparently pretty far it seemed as France's hand was a mere centimetre away from Arthur's crotch when the Englishman turned his attention away from the TV that held a countdown of the minutes and seconds until the clock struck and it was officially Christmas day, causing Francis to cease his game of gay chicken._

_**"10!"**__  
>"Frog-" France jerked his hand away from Arthur's vital regions and tried to look innocent.<br>"Oui?"  
><em>_**"9!"**__  
>"Mistletoe"<br>__**"8!"**__  
>"Quoi?"<br>__**"7!"**__  
>"Above our heads."<br>__**"6!"**__  
>"Oh, Oui...I see."<br>__**"5!"**__  
>"Kiss me."<br>__**"4!"**__  
>"Quoi?"<br>__**"3!"**__  
>"I said kiss me."<br>__**"2!"**__  
>"Are vous sure-"<br>__**"1!"**__  
>"Just do it before I change my mind!"<br>__**"0! Merry Christmas!"**___

_It wasn't the most romantic of requests yet Francis sure as hell wasn't about to pass it up – leaning forwards he hastily pressed his lips to Arthur's, rather roughly at first he had to admit, but realising how desperate he must've seemed he softened his approach to the kiss, his previously groping hands now fluttering up to frame England's face._

_How long the intimacy was originally supposed to go on for France didn't know but he made no complaint and that seemed to spur the Englishman on; the Briton's kisses got deeper, more needy even, and his tongue pushed against Francis' lips determinedly until with a throaty chuckle the Frenchman opened his mouth a millimetre and the eager Briton hastily took the bait, his muscle __fighting for dominance over France's._

_"Angleterre, Angleterre, stop-" Francis managed to croak out despite the Englishman shoving his tongue down his throat. Arthur seemed to focus on and realise the situation at hand and his cheeks began to slowly turn a wonderful shade of pink. This beautiful sight of complete and utter innocence and sheepishness took France off guard and he sort of goggled at the Englishman for a few seconds before he remembered why he had interrupted their kissing session._

_Flicking his eyes over to the countdown clock on the television several times pointedly to get the Briton to follow his gaze Francis couldn't help a bubble of laughter escape his throat as Arthur's cheeks flushed a further crimson at the sight of Big Ben's dial showing a quarter past midnight. They had obviously been in their lip lock for longer than necessary._

_"I suppose I should say 'Joyeux Noël', non? Or is it a bit late for that now?" France giggled, moving a lock of Arthur's sandy blonde hair away from his eyes with a pearly toothed grin. Stammering a couple of times before answering England managed a half smile before he stuck his tongue out childishly (he had been fond of doing this in his punk rock anarchy days, along with showing the middle finger every five seconds) and he grunted out "Bah humbug! What does it matter that it's Christmas frog? No miracles ever happen."_

_Rolling his eyes at the quoted Dickens Francis said "It is a time of joy, non? Why are vous so grumpy?"  
>"HAH! Why don't you ask that pillock America? Always has to outdo me by throwing the most <em>_**extravagant**__ party and having the __**biggest**__ tree"  
>"Oh, Arthur! So bitter over trivial things! Don't be such a child."<br>"That's rich coming from you" England snorted  
>"Quoi?"<em>

_Arthur imitated a high pitched girlish warble that sounded unfortunately a tad too much like France and flapped his hand out camply "Look at me, I'm Francis 'Frog face' Bonnefoy, I sleep with everything that moves on Christmas day so I'm not alone and then I cry about not getting called back the next day – boo hoo!"  
>"Hey!-" Francis puffed up angrily "-they always call me back merci!"<br>Another snort. "Yeah right. The ones you'd rather forget always call back you mean, like the married ones or the prostitutes wanting their money or-"  
>"Where is this going?" Francis asked scathingly as Arthur just grinned and replied<br>"No-where. It's fun to wind you up."he picked up his refilled pint from the bar "Merry Christmas, Wino" laughing at his own joke he took a sip of the golden liquid and smiled over the rim of the glass at the Frenchman smugly. France promptly spilt his drink over England's lap, by accident of course._

_OoOo_

_Finally at two AM on Christmas Day the duo were kicked out the pub by the landlord who, at first, had seen no problem with the two men staying there spending a hefty amount on alcohol yet had soon changed his mind when their conversations grew into loud heated arguments and liquor and furniture were getting thrown about precariously._

_Scowling and drawing his coat closer around himself Arthur glared at the Frenchman, his breath coming out in small white puffs in the chill morning air.  
>"So what now?"<br>"I am going home, vous can do whatever vous wish"  
><em>_"You're leaving me drunk and alone on the streets." Arthur stated.  
>"Oui."<br>"Don't be a git – walk me home" Francis looked less than willing to move and Arthur added "-if I go missing you're the last person I was seen with and they'll come after you first."  
>"I'd be a suspect?"<br>"You'd be written down as my kidnapper. Especially if you were interviewed by my police department, because, you know how much we __**loveee**__ the French."  
>"...Fine"<em>

_One scowling and the other looking insanely smug the two countries proceeded to walk along the several winding pavements, down the numerous hills and up a particularly steep one (that almost killed them in the process) to finally reach England's home. It was no longer the city building that Arthur had previously inhabited in the recession years back but was now more along the lines of a airy, clean looking cottage with a neat looking garden and white painted picket fence around the perimeter._

_Fumbling with his eyes in his pocket England extracted a large golden key from the hundreds of pieces of clanking metal and forced it into the lock ungraciously, rattling it around impatiently until the door's locking mechanism gave way and the oak door swung open. France stood in the doorway leaning against the door frame with his feet crossed one over the other. England noticed this and slowly turned to face the Frenchman, his thick eyebrows raised.  
>"Can I help you?"<br>"Vous need to say goodnight to me"  
>"OK, fine, goodnight, now-"<br>"Non, non! - vous need to express your sorrow at our parting!"  
>"...What?"<em>

_Sighing in deep exasperation Francis stepped boldly across the threshold, grabbed Arthur by the collar and kissed him square on the lips.  
>"That-" he said in conclusion as he pulled away "-is how vous say goodnight"<br>Yet the Briton wasn't at all interested or in fact listening to Francis' words, his large emerald eyes were focused on one thing and one only.  
>"Don't say a bloody word" he grumbled, reaching across and grabbing the Frenchman's woollen winter scarf and tugging on it so to draw the man close as he kissed him deeply for the third time that night.<em>

_Francis concluded that this was his favourite way to say goodnight by a long stretch._

_OoOo_

_It was eight AM when Francis woke up bleary eyed, naked, and with a severe hangover in a bed he did not recognise. He wasn't really all that phased as this was a regular occurrence for him but what made his heart skip a beat in his chest was the sight of the equally nude Englishman curled up by his side deep in sleep – now __**that**__ was __**not**__ a regular occurrence._

_Gradually the memories of last night seeped back into France's mind and realised what they're just done. Groaning inwardly at the hell he was going to get for this from Arthur when he finally came to Francis stretched his limbs out before gently sliding out of the covers and setting about collecting up his scattered clothes._

_This was the first time they had slept together (that France could remember anyway.) That same thought kept spinning round his head along with grainy half formed memories from the night __before. Leaning over and peeking a look at the sleeping Briton Francis couldn't help but feel fond of the large eyebrowed man, and that thought confused him slightly. Judging from the Englishman's slow steady breathing France presumed he was safe for at least another couple of hours and tottered off to the bathroom to have a shower._

_The warm water soothed his aching joints as he stood there and promptly started to scrub his flesh clean of alcohol and other substances before moving on to massaging his scalp with the only decent shampoo that he could find in the Briton's bathroom cabinet. Unfortunately now he smelt suspiciously like melon._

_As he stood there on the tiled floor letting the water fall rhythmically down around him Francis wondered what his plan of action must now be. Being well associated with the drunken one night stand routine France knew that it was customary for the person who had slept with the person whom the house belonged to to be the one to do the age old tradition of the walk of shame back home yet – this was England he would be leaving, which narrowed his options down to two possible outcomes._

_Francis would get dressed and leave the premises as soon as possible before the Englishman awoke and could start cussing at him or France would stick around, tidy the house a fraction (he had noted unruly stains on the carpets that had to be dealt with) and make a complimentary breakfast for the Briton who in his hungover state would begrudgingly wake, eat his fill and __**then**__ give the Frenchman hell for last night._

_Even though it takes two to have sex and England had played a rather significant role in the leading up to their falling into bed together Francis knew how stubborn the Briton was and how he would never, even on his death bed, admit to actually wanting to sleep with the man he commonly referred to as a 'garlic shovelling wanker.'_

_Caught with indecision Francis turned the shower off and stepped out into the misty bathroom and onto the fuzzy bathmat that was placed below. Grabbing a green mossy coloured towel from the heated rack situated next to the porcelain sink France wrapped it around his torso before going back for a second smaller yellow towel to dry off his hair._

_Two hours later and the Frenchman's jobs were finally done. The carpets were no longer stained (thanks to a stain remover Francis had found lurking in the cupboard under the sink) and Arthur's breakfast consisting of toast, a full 'English' fry up and a pot of steaming earl grey tea was placed on the oak table, set out ready with plate, knife, fork and tea cup. France noted only one chair was situated at the table and the sight saddened him slightly. To think that the Briton was so hard up for company that he needn't bother with the furniture to accommodate anyone any more was surprisingly upsetting._

_The creaking of the floorboards from upstairs jolted France out of his melancholy thoughts and he hastily made his way to the hall, pulling on his shoes and coat as fast as he could. He had made a kind after morning gesture and would leave it at that: he didn't want an argument right now, especially with the memories of last night still etched into his mind. Closing the door he proceeded up the street to the bus stop – the image of the nude Arthur he'd mentally saved in his mind's eye spreading a large smug grin across his face. Of course he'd had to have one more peek that morning before he left._

_OoOo_

_**January 5th 2007 – World Summit Meeting 11:02 AM**__  
><em>_France hadn't seen or heard from the Englishman since their little get together on Christmas for which he had passed off as the Briton being in denial or just too arrogant to call – both of which would be __**so**__ typical of Arthur. He had not expected the moment he entered the meeting room to be grabbed by the ear as if he were a naughty school child and be dragged over ruthlessly to the corner._

_"Merde! My beautiful ear! What are vo- Oh. Angleterre." Francis trailed off, confused by the look of utter outrage on the Briton's face "Quoi-"  
>"You bloody well know what Frog! You broke into my house on Christmas morning, to what? Use my shower, clean and make breakfast? What the hell were you thinking!"<br>"I...broke in?" Francis asked, his confusion growing.  
>"Don't act so bloody innocent. I could have you arrested for this!"<em>

_England didn't remember. It was clear as day as Francis surveyed the Briton's features that he hadn't the faintest clue that they had been together on Christmas eve, let alone slept together. Oh the powers of alcohol on a weak willed mind...France sighed.  
>"How do vous know it was me?"<br>"Roses. Everywhere. __**And**__ no-one else uses as much product as you in the bathroom, let alone folds the towels into origami swans!"_

_Rather hurt his skill hadn't been appreciated Francis snapped "Fine. It was me-"  
>"AHAH! I knew it!" England interrupted, looking triumphant.<br>"-next time maybe I'll let vous spend Christmas alone like vous always do."  
>Arthur's smug smile faded before he stepped forward, grabbing a bunch of France's shirt in his fist and sneering into his face. Was it the Frenchman's imagination or did he see a flicker of recognition in Arthur's gaze? After all, last time they'd been in this position England had kissed him.<em>

_"Stay the __**fuck**__ away from me." Arthur finally managed, pushing himself away from the Frenchman and stalking off bitterly. And with that sweet parting sentiment they didn't speak for a total of five months._

OoOo

The meeting was finally over. France could feel his insides squirm as he watched Arthur and Alfred pack up their notes into their briefcases (or backpack in America's case) and get up to leave the room, not once looking at each other. Was this guilt he felt or success? Either way he felt uneasy and needing straight answers to his many questions the Frenchman proceeded to follow the Briton.

England's face was flushed when Francis finally caught up with him in the car park. He looked livid yet resigned at the same time and France wasn't sure what to say. Luckily Arthur didn't require his condolences. "That man is a cruel vindictive soul sucking piece of shit! I'll be damned – I can't believe I ever fell for him!" the slamming of the boot as Arthur finished loading up his car. Francis stood awkwardly to the side.

"I told myself I had to work hard at this relationship after having so many failed ones before – told myself this was it, I'd finally got what I'd set out to achieve."  
>"And what is that?"<br>"Someone that loved me." the tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Francis fought back the desire to scream in rage at the Briton or moreover break down in tears.  
>"I loved vous" France said in a voice barely a whisper. He wasn't even sure the Englishman heard him as he didn't show any signs of understanding on his face, save for the pursing of his lips.<p>

"I heard your car buggered up" England said after a while, his lips tilting up into a small smile, almost mockingly.  
>"Oui -and I'm guessing vous are not going to offer me a lift?"<br>"You know me too well" with a smug grin that seemed only half hearted the Briton yanked open the driver's side door of his Mini and plonked himself down ungraciously in the seat before snapping in his seatbelt. A turn of the key in the ignition and the engine sprang to life, fighting to be heard over the drawl of voices coming out of the Englishman's radio that was secured to BBC Radio 4. Turning the volume down on 'The Now Show' Arthur shut the door behind him, raising a hand in farewell to Francis, before he began to reverse out of his parking space.

France felt like an idiot, which was unusual to say the least. Obviously he hadn't expected Arthur to leap straight into his arms professing his undying love (not straight away anyway) yet he had sort of expected a gesture of thanks or a apology on having dealt with Alfred. Also, not to mention the fact he'd admitted his feelings for the Briton earlier only to have them brushed aside and ignored. What happened now? Were England and America still together? Still in love? And where did Francis stand in all of this? His head hurt.

Disheartened and car-less the Frenchman began walking melancholy' down to bus stop, his feet dragging ever so slightly. Just as he had sat down, perched on the edge of a particularly grimy bus shelter bench, there was a screech of wheels and when he looked up he was faced with the sight of Arthur's Mini doing an illegal U turn and heading up the wrong side of the road towards the bus stop he was at.

"Are vous insane?" Francis screeched as the car pulled up. England was sticking his head out of the window so to see where he was going and to show the 'finger' to anyone that honked furiously at his bad driving.  
>"Just get in the bloody car before some wanker crashes into it and we both end up dead!" Arthur yelled over the sound of another car's horn blaring at them.<p>

Fearing for his life as he darted round the side of the small car and launched himself into the passenger seat Francis didn't even have time to secure his seatbelt before England was spinning the car round, narrowly missing hitting other vehicles, before shooting across to the right hand side lane.

"What are vous doing?" Francis spat out, finally doing up his seat belt and breathing hard out of genuine fear.  
>"What does it look like I'm doing Frog? I'm giving you a lift" Arthur stated cooly, reaching over and turning up the radio so the car was filled with the comic sounding laughter from a BBC programme, drowning out the ability to have a conversation.<p>

France stared in mute disbelief at the Briton for a minute or so before burying his face in his hands with a low exasperated moan and sliding weakly down in his seat; he truly must be insane to be in love with this maniac.

TO BE CONTINUED...


End file.
